


Vigil

by Mussimm



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, I mean I guess it's canon compliant, I'll write shitty pulp fiction until the cows come home, Medical stuff, Murder Mystery, Romance, Slow Burn, Whodunnit, don't @me, it has literally all the characters everyone's here, split timeline, yes I wrote another split timeline fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-08-24 21:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 49
Words: 72,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16647743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mussimm/pseuds/Mussimm
Summary: As people converge on Skyhold for the Inquisitor's wedding, a terrible crime threatens to shatter the fragile peace in Thedas. The inner circle races to find the culprit before mayhem breaks out in the isolated keep. Everyone has a motive. No one can be trusted. Passions flare, old wounds reopen and before the end someone may lose their head.





	1. After - One

“I propose...” Dorian wobbled to his feet, cup raised high in the air. He held the attention of the room for a moment before sighing dramatically. “A day of mourning.”

“Sit down, sparkles,” Varric tossed a morsel of his bread at the mage. “You're drunk.”

The evening was muggy, summer reaching up into the mountains and relieving the frosts, and the last rays of sunshine shot through the gossamer leaves that crept around the window frames. The command hall had been repurposed, as it occasionally was, for the commanders to get drunk away from the prying eyes and ears of their subordinates. The air was full of music and laughter, and the chairs full of on-the-drunk-side-of-tipsy friends. 

“We have to grieve,” Dorian continued unperturbed. “In two days time the most handsome man in all Thedas is officially taken. He with the bluest eyes, the plumpest mouth, the most beautiful -”

“Dorian,” Cassandra warned.

Sera smothered a peal of laughter into Varric's shoulder, face flushed pink. Blackwall hid his face in his hand.

“Hush now, you get him for all your days, let us have this night.” He turned back to his adoring crowd. “Now as I was saying, he’s simply the best looking of all of us and I suppose he's Andraste's chosen or something as well. Let’s all raise a glass to Cassandra and Handsome Seamus!”

Cassandra offered Dorian her least amused smile and raised her glass.

She could not hold a grudge long, as Seamus' laughter rang out and he raised his own glass to toast, his bad arm resting at her back. She had indulged in one too many drinks herself, sharing hors d'oeuvres with Vivienne, who convinced her with every bite of cheese that another sip of wine would be the perfect complement.

It was rare enough to have everyone back at Skyhold, and in such good mood she didn't dare disturb it. She had been so focused on her work, as everyone had been on their own, that it felt strange to take a few days to just be happy. No one complained, no one begged off for the love of their cause. Their friends, their family, it seemed like everyone of note in Southern Thedas happily accepted the chance to take the time off. The world stood still as everyone converged on Skyhold to celebrate their wedding.

Seamus leaned into her, planting a kiss on her cheek, then let her go and stood up.Cassandra covered her nose and mouth with her hand, attempting to hide from whatever drunken sentiments he was about to share. He was as flushed as the rest of them, as carefree and happy.

“Alright, if we're going to have speeches. Thank you, Dorian,” he tipped his cup to the mage. Quiet descended over the room, as it always did when he spoke. “I want to thank you all. Not just for being here while we built this Inquisition or staying when things were tough. I have to thank you all for being here this week, as my friends, not my soldiers. It's easy to come together when we're facing a common threat. But this week there’s no threat, we’re here to enjoy what we fought to protect. This week we celebrate our victory, we celebrate the Inquisition, and we celebrate love.”

“To victory,” Varric raised his cup.

“To the Inquisition,” Cullen chimed in.

Seamus smiled his stunning, inimitable smile and raised his glass, looking at Cassandra. “To my future wife. To Cassandra.”

She burned with that feeling he so often inspired in her, somewhere between dying of embarrassment and wanting to drown herself in his sincerity.

“To Cassandra!” the others echoed, drunk and happy to toast to anything.

Seamus took up his seat next to her again and she buried her face in his shoulder, relaxing into his embrace. It wasn't her way to be the center of attention. He had suggested and arranged most of this. He wanted her to have her storybook romance, her perfect wedding. With anyone else it would have been impossible. With his hand always in her own, his reassurance, his confidence saw her through. With him she wasn’t just brave enough to fulfill her girlish fantasy, she could enjoy it.

“Cass,” he murmured into her hair.

“Yes, my love?” She looked up and took in his strained expression, his pallor.

“I think I need to leave.”

She nodded. “I'll come with you.”

They rose together, Seamus already offering his apologies as she shadowed him to the door. A chorus of wolf-whistles rose from their tipsy friends. She pulled his arm around her shoulders, trying to play off his tremor as one too many drinks. He was holding up. No one had noticed a problem yet.

Seamus made it to the stairs of the great hall before his knees gave out under him. Cassandra held his weight, keeping him from falling.

“Another step, my love,” she said. It would be a long trip up those stairs if he couldn't bear his own weight.

The climb was longer than it should have been, Seamus having to pause or lean his weight against her every few steps, but she urged him up the stairs to his quarters. The agony on his face lanced her through.

“It's alright,” he murmured as she lowered him onto his bed. “It's alright. I'm going to be -”

His own cry of pain cut him off. He clutched at his missing arm, curling in on himself. Cassandra left him to the bed and took the brown bottle from his bedside table, measuring out two drops. She took the pitcher of water and poured into a cup, weighing the amount on the scales.

“Just hold on.”

“Any time now,” he said, trying for a joking tone through the pain.

She judged the water and the medicine, double checked her measurements. “I'm trying not to poison you, dear.”

“I'll take the poison. Stronger this time, please.”

Cassandra eyed him for a moment, weighing his pain against the risk, then added a third drop to the mixture. She pressed the cup into his hand and helped him steady it as he drank. All the color had drained from his face, his usual healthy glow turned to sickly white. This state still struck terror into her, as it had from the moment his anchor had started hurting him. The offending arm was gone, yet these fits of pain persisted.

Seamus fell back against his pillows, face contorted in pain. Cassandra sat beside him and began running her fingers through his hair, giving him something to focus on as he came out of the shock. When the medicine took hold, his body relaxed visibly. He leaned into her touch.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Mm. Don't worry about me, the mages said it would get worse before it got better.”

“How comforting.”

Seamus smiled, turning his face into her hand. “The anchor's gone. It's not going to hurt me anymore. A year from now we won't remember the afterpains.”

“We should postpone the wedding.”

“Only if you want to tell all the people arriving tomorrow that they can turn around and go home.”

“I will.”

Seamus laughed, a real laugh that set her frayed nerves to rest. “I know you will. But please don't. I don't want to wait anymore.”

He tugged at her, guiding her down beside him so he could wrap around her. She relaxed back into the bed, still stroking his hair. The bouts of pain hadn't been so bad at first when he lost the arm, just aches and twinges. The mages said his body was expelling the last of the bilious energy from the anchor and reasserting his own natural magic, that the process would be difficult but ultimately harmless. She prayed it would be over soon.

“I don't want you collapsing at the altar,” she said.

“I won't. I promise.”

She laughed into his shoulder. “You can't promise such a thing.”

“I just did.”

She playfully batted at his chest and moved to disentangle herself. It would be best to leave before his drugs turned him delirious and he started getting ideas. The poison gave his spirit urges that his body could not satisfy. In the end he would fall asleep and she would be the one left with energy to burn off and no outlet.

Too late. With fingertips he pushed aside the hem of her shirt and spread one warm hand over the small of her back. A shiver ran the length of her spine.

“No,” she warned.

“Cassie,” he whined.

“Goodnight, my love.” She stood up and pulled her shirt back into place. A glance over her shoulder and despite his protest he was already dozing. She smiled to herself.

Just two more days.


	2. Before - One

The hole in the sky was going to swallow them all.

Cassandra stared at it, eyes unfocused. The thought consumed her mind but didn't inspire the terror it should have. Shock. She recognised it, had felt it before and seen it in many others. There was nothing to be said. The temple was in splinters underneath the breach. The bodies of hundreds. The hopes of peace. The Divine. All broken and charred.

She still had her orders, her duties. There had been one survivor, a mage wielding some strange magic. He had to be questioned, and if guilty, executed. It was a crystalline thought in the middle of the fog. Cassandra's forces were retrieving him from the wreckage.

The hole in the sky was going to swallow them.

“We have to...” Leliana started, then trailed off.

A lump welled in Cassandra's throat again, hysteria threatening to overwhelm her for the dozenth time since the explosion. She swallowed it down. There would be time for grief and plenty of people to share it with her.

The train of soldiers coming down from the summit were too far away. Not yet near enough for her to see the man who killed the Divine. Might have killed the Divine. Why would he have done this? Was it as simple as a mage not wanting the rebellion to end? Or was he trying to end it, to restore himself to a comfortable circle instead of outlawry? Perhaps neither. With all of their enemies gathered in a single place how could she have let herself be delayed and leave the Divine vulnerable?

“I need to...” Leliana tried again. “My people will know something about... whoever he is...”

“Leliana,” Cassandra felt that same weakness in her voice, mouth dry and throat not wanting to let the words creep through. “We have a few minutes. Compose yourself and find your people. I will deal with the mage.”

Leliana took a deep breath, closing her eyes, then nodded.

Cullen approached and laid a hand on Cassandra's elbow. “Let's meet them. One of the cells is ready for him.”

Cassandra rested a gloved hand on the hilt of her sword and followed him. If the mage gave them trouble she would destroy him and worry no more about his motivations.

They met the train of soldiers at the gates of Haven and Cassandra's heart sank when she saw the stretcher borne between two templars. If he was dead they would have no answers. She caught a shock of auburn hair and turned to Cullen before her brain entirely caught up to her eyes and she looked back at the man on the stretcher.

Of all the absurdities in the world, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Even in his tattered robes, face smeared with ash, eyes sunken with bodily trauma, there was no escaping that he looked like someone had painted him rather than birthed him. Thick hair that spilled about his face, soft lips and a strong jaw, broad in the shoulder and muscular in the arms. Cassandra's brain froze for a moment to process the surprise. She expected the monster who killed the Divine to be... she couldn't say. But it still felt like biting into an apple only to discover it was a tomato.

With a brilliant flare of green the man screamed, still unconscious, and his body thrashed on the stretcher. Cassandra raised her sword and stepped back, trying to identify the source of the light. “What is happening?”

“It's...” An elven mage ran forward from the ranks, attending to the man immediately. He was lean and spindly, carrying the same air as the Dalish elves, but without the facial tattoos. “We're not sure, I just need to get this under control. Please excuse me, Seeker.”

He knelt beside the makeshift bedside and worked some magic, dragging the green flare back from the air about them like he was gathering up spiderwebs from a dusty corner. As he contained it the convulsing man calmed, sweating and trembling, but stabilising.

“What is that?” Cullen demanded.

“I'm not sure,” the elven mage said, standing and facing them. “It's not coming from him, it seems to be some kind of parasitic magic. It will kill him if I don't contain it.”

“Did it cause the explosion?” Cassandra asked.

“It's difficult to say. It may have caused the explosion, it may have been caused by the explosion. Or something else could be at work.”

A grunt of frustration escaped Cassandra's mouth. “Put him in the cell. You, mage, stay with him. Get me answers and don't let him die. And put him in chains.”

She turned, preparing to dismiss them with a wave, but Leliana approached with two elves in black hoods. Her spies. She took a look at the man on the stretcher and did the same double-take Cassandra had done.

A frown settled onto Leliana's face.

“You know this man?” Cassandra asked.

“I- No. It couldn't be him.”

“If you know something, say it!” Cassandra advanced on her a step and Leliana raised an eyebrow. Cassandra took a breath and gentled her posture. It wouldn't do for the Divine's right and left hands to turn on each other.

“Is that medallion from the Ostwick Circle? I can't believe it.” Leliana mused, ignoring the rebuke.

Cassandra deliberately calmed her tone. “Leliana, what do you know?”

“It was just a joke. There's a mage from Ostwick Circle they call Handsome Seamus. Lord Seamus Trevelyan, second son of a minor house. The women who went through there loved to talk about him. It was just a little light in this war. We needed it.”

Cullen stepped in. “Please tell me since leaving the Circle he's been a war criminal or an assassin.”

“Nothing of the sort. He's never done anything of note, good or bad. He's just handsome.”

“Enough,” Cassandra said. “This isn't the place. Get him inside. Two templar guards, day and night.”

She waved the train forward and looked away from Leliana and Cullen. She did not have the strength to mesh Leliana's jokes with such a monstrous crime. It was easy, even for her, to think of the Divine as otherworldly. The idea that her murderer was someone with a home and a history left a bitter taste in her mouth. And if Leliana's spies had missed him concocting this plan because they had been too busy mooning over him she would have blood.

The train moved past her, a few dozen of the templars and duty-bound mages who had been at Haven when the disaster happened. Each side would blame the other. This war hadn't finished here, it may have just started anew.

“Lady Seeker?” A trembling voice broke her reverie, a young, haggard templar stepped out from the others. “I was there. When he stepped out. When the mage came out of the breach. I was there.”

“Do you have something to tell me?”

The young man was pale and strained, struck with a fundamental terror. “Lady Seeker I saw him emerge, me and some of the others. We saw it. When he stepped out.”

“Soldier, say what you came to say,” she said.

He swallowed thickly, hands shaking, avoiding her eyes. “Lady Seeker, when the breach opened it wasn't just him. I saw it, me and the others. I saw Andraste help him out of there.”

A chill struck her in the chest like a physical blow. He was earnest, this was no prank. She stood frozen, unable to decide if she should beg for his account of Andraste or box his ears for his blasphemy. It couldn't be true. Everyone who had ever claimed connection to Andraste had been a fraud. And if somehow the Maker had smiled on one person at the Conclave and decided to intervene he would surely have chosen the Divine, his most faithful servant.

The lump rose in her throat again. She had to get away from this place, anywhere she might think without something else happening to muddy the waters.

She set her jaw. “We will call you for testimony later. Rejoin the others.”

The templar nodded and slunk back into line. She could not bear one more blow to her faith or her heart today. It was time to retreat, to take stock of what they knew and try to come up with a plan of action.

The hole in the sky still threatened.


	3. After - Two

“How much longer are we doing this?” Cullen murmured to Cassandra.

“Another decade or so, it seems.” She had a fake smile plastered on her face, her eyes far away.

They stood in the full sunlight on the steps to the great hall. The courtyard swarmed with unfamiliar faces. Cullen, Josie, and an assortment of their intimates stood as the honour guard, giving some extra presence to the Inquisitor for the occasion. His armour was sweltering in the heat but Josie insisted that they all look their best for the cream of Southern Thedas, who were being introduced, one by interminable one, to the happy couple. 

The only one who didn't seem to be feeling the heat was Seamus, turning diplomatic chatter into heartfelt sentiments with his guests. The Inquisitor wasn't in his best clothing, instead playing the barefoot prophet in modest attire. He always doted on Cassandra, but today he had the audacity to do it in public, holding her hand, pressing kisses on her cheeks and lavishing her with praise. While Cullen detested the Game he knew that Seamus was wise to play it. Many of the faces here had accused him of power seeking, warmongering, social climbing and plenty of other unpleasantness. It would be almost impossible to believe this humble, affectionate man had anything nefarious lurking behind the curtains.

“Is that the King of Ferelden?” Cassandra asked, eyebrow raised.

“He came himself?” Cullen said. He was surprised enough to miss the much bigger problem climbing the steps until it was almost on top of them.

The Champion of Kirkwall was as tall a woman as Cullen ever knew, and the hefty longbow she carried only gave her extra height. That suited, as she could never be in a room, or city, without making her presence as big and loud as possible. He had not missed Kirkwall. He might had mixed feelings about the Champion but he also had the absolute certainty of Cassandra's feelings about her. Feelings which would not be improved by the horde of brigands following them.

“Inquisitor!” Lorelai Hawke gave a sweeping bow, matched by the daringly dressed woman on her arm. “And Seeker Pentaghast, it is such a delight to see you again. We really should catch up more often.”

“Lorelai,” Seamus snatched up the bait by taking Hawke's hand in a firm grasp. “So glad you could make it. I don't think I've met...”

“Isabela! Isabela, meet Handsome Seamus. Seamus, this is my paramour, Isabela of Rivain, captain of the Siren's Call. And her crew, of course.”

Seamus paused for a moment before processing that. “Always nice to have new friends at Skyhold. I'll look forward to getting to know you, Isabela.”

Isabela laughed. “Oh, Lorelai, you were right about this one. Definitely worth knowing.”

“A pity you won't be staying long, Lady Hawke,” Cassandra said. “Your visits are always so short.”

A weaker woman would have been turned to stone by Cassandra's gaze in that moment. Cullen smothered a laugh into a cough.

Lorelai clapped Cassandra on the shoulder, towering over her. “We'll catch up later, Seeker, I'll tell you all about the last few years, shall I?”

With that parting shot the group moved on. There was silence among them as a good two dozen people in scavenged clothing and glittering jewellery followed the pair. They carved a path right through the milling nobility, drawing eyes from all quarters.

“So,” Seamus spoke up. “Those were pirates, right?”

“I'll have the silverware counted,” Josephine said.

Without introduction a Grey Warden approached them, arms behind her back. She was slight, with the grim, gaunt look of all Grey Wardens, hair tied into a flawless braid, uniform pressed and gleaming.

No one moved to introduce her. Josephine scanned her list of guests, caught off guard but a twinge of familiarity hit Cullen. There was just something about her. In the line of the nose or the colour of her eyes. As she stood silently before the Inquisitor, assessing him, it hit him.

“Teddy?” he blurted out. The others turned to look at him and he coughed, composing himself. “Uh, Your Worship, may I introduce Warden Commander Theodora Amell, Hero of Ferelden.”

“Warden Commander,” Seamus said, surprise evident in his voice. “It's a pleasure, I know you rarely find time for social engagements.”

Cullen couldn't believe it. He remembered a pimply-faced teenager with an irascible grin, always getting him into trouble. And the flirting. She had been incorrigible. It was surreal to see her fully grown, a Grey Warden, and the distant, distracted look in her eyes. She looked right through the Inquisitor, even as she spoke to him.

“Your Worship,” she said, bowing stiffly. “Lady Pentaghast.”

“It is an honour to have you among us,” Cassandra said. “I hope you will favour us with tales of the Blight, when we have the chance.”

“Mm,” Theodora hummed noncommittally and bowed again. “Cullen, good to see you.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, tongue-tied. “I... It's been a long time. We should... It's good to see you, Theodora.”

She politely ignored his ramble and drifted away from them, eyes still somewhere else. He watched her go for a moment too long and didn't notice that all eyes were on him until he turned back. He must have turned beet red at their gaze. Even Cassandra was suppressing a grin.

“What?”

“Did you just call the Hero of Ferelden 'Teddy'?” Seamus asked.

“It's– I knew her as a girl, of course I–” He cut himself off before her could embarrass himself further. That crush had been fifteen years ago. He was not still hung up on her. If the others thought he was then they could just think that.

“Did you invite her?”

“I didn't think she'd come! It was a courtesy.”

At least there was a little real laughter to go about, even if it was at his expense. They needed something to tide them over through the afternoon. Despite his thoughts earlier Seamus was starting to look a little worn and favouring one side. Cassandra was edging closer to him, as though she expected him to drop at any second.

Cassandra nudged his shoulder. “I think you are needed elsewhere, Commander.”

She nodded to the crowd and he followed her gaze. His blush was forgotten in an instant and he grinned. Making his apologies he hastened down the stairs and into the crowd, hoping to catch her unawares.

It was a touch childish, but he managed to sneak up and wrap his sister in a hug before she knew what hit her. She let out a little yelp of surprise before wrapping her arms around him and squeezing, laughing into the fur of his collar.

Mia stood a head shorter than him, her gold hair now streaked with grey and her best dress just a flowered frock in a sea of silk and samite. But her smile was the same, broad and warm. “You scared me, Cullen.”

“I'm glad you made it. I was hoping. The others?”

She shook her head. “Branson's wife is expecting any day now, and Rosie just took her orders. But I brought... Lewyn! Come greet your uncle!”

She beckoned to a boy of about ten, who looked like a rabbit in a cage, wide eyed and confused. It was all a lot to take in for an adult, Cullen couldn't imagine how the poor boy must have been feeling. He hadn't ever met the boy in person, only hearing of him in letters.

“Lewyn, is it?” He bent down to meet him face-to-face. “I'm Cullen, your father's brother.”

“G-good afternoon, sir,” the boy said.

“Don't mind him, he's shy on a good day,” Mia said. “Oh, but look at my little brother. Leader of the Inquisition's forces and don't you look handsome. We hoped to greet the Inquisitor and his lady, give them our best.”

Cullen laughed. “You will, but have mercy, they've half the Orlesian court to greet today. I'll have you sit near me at the welcome feast, you can meet him then.”

He glanced back at the party and saw the same scene he had been part of. He had just missed Leliana's arrival with a gaggle of Revered Mothers. Some of the strain was out of Cassandra but the Inquisitor was paler than before, a casual arm around Cassandra's shoulders that might have been affectionate but also might have been for support.

He shook his head. It wasn't time to worry about that, no one on the podium would allow Seamus to get heat sick, even for the sake of appearances. He turned back to his sister and nephew. He hadn't seen her in years and had time to make up for.

“Come on, let's get out of this heat.”


	4. Before - Two

Haven was silent. Everyone there moved as if in a dream, their work and their leisure conducted in the shadow of the tragedy that had not passed yet, and under the gaze of the breach.

Or perhaps it was that there was little action to be taken. The mages worked furiously on any solution to the breach and came up empty. Solas kept Trevelyan alive, barely, but no closer to waking. They all held their breath to see if the next development would be a breakthrough from their side or another strike from beyond the veil.

Cullen kept himself busy fighting demons that sprung from the rifts. Leliana had her spies, a network she was wringing for answers. But Cassandra had little to occupy herself. No one to interrogate, no spies to consult or forces to command. Just the hollow grief of losing Justinia and another handful of witnesses claiming to have seen Andraste.

She had faith, she had always been Andrastian, but she had never been challenged to take that faith so literally before. One of the central tenets of the Chant was that the Maker had abandoned them. He had only ever in their history favoured one soul with his presence. One. Andraste herself. His beloved, his wife. It beggared belief to think she had the second ever favoured soul locked in a dungeon.

She had always imagined the Maker's influence, if it was felt at all, to be a gentle nudge of feelings or thoughts to guide them on his desired path. Not sending his wife to hurl an entire man into a crowd of witnesses.

If it was true then the man in question, this man, was something special. If it was untrue then the same man was unique in a far worse way. Which made it all the more frustrating that her every line of questioning led back to only one answer: he was no one. He had done nothing. No one of note noted him.

“What do we know about the Ostwick Circle?” she asked Leliana, leaning over their great war map.

Leliana shrugged. “It was a nice place, from what I've heard. A lot of nobility so it was well stocked and funded and the templars were wary of causing a political incident.”

“And when they rebelled?”

“With more a whimper than a bang. Their templars were called to the annulment of the Starkhaven Circle. The mages weren't even left a caretaking force, so they left.”

“And the Trevelyans?”

Leliana dandled a dagger between her fingertips, looking over the map. She studied it for a while, then looked up. “You won't find answers in his past, no matter how many ways you ask the question.”

“He can't have been nothing until this happened. There must be something.”

“Ninety-nine times out of a hundred if my spies know nothing about someone, there's nothing to know.”

“Then let us assume this is the hundredth time.”

Leliana sighed. “I know it would be convenient if he were a monster and we had finally caught him, but we both know that convenience and truth are rarely bedfellows.”

Cassandra clenched her fist. There had to be answers. This was all too messy, too unfair. The Divine didn't die by chance. The Maker didn't abandon her for a random stranger. It couldn't be. “How can you be so calm about this? Justinia is dead!”

Something dark passed over Leliana's face. “And someone will answer for that. You and I will make sure of it. The right person will pay for it, not the first person we get our hands on. Even you are not sure of his guilt.”

“It's not his guilt I want.” She closed her eyes. His guilt would do, if it came to it. What she really wanted was too much to ask for, had to be walled off in her heart along with every other mad impulse Justinia's death had inspired.

It would be so easy, in her grief, to look for a narrative order to things. If this were a play or a book it would only make sense that the most faithful servant of the Maker had been overlooked for someone even more precious. That sitting in her cell was the second Andraste, here to bring order back to a war torn world. It was a treacherous idea that glowed gold inside her. The beautiful stranger bringing blessings from beyond the fade, the champion they so desperately needed. She swallowed the idea even as it rose in her like a cresting wave.

An idea for a romance novel, not a murder investigation. She could not forgive herself if tenderness of the heart led her to make a mistake in this.

“Solas thinks he will live,” Leliana said. She idly stroked the blade of her dagger. “You'll get your chance to question him.”

“What if nothing comes of it?”

“If anyone can get answers from him, it's you.”

Cassandra let out a bitter laugh. “I couldn't break Varric Tethras. Outwitted by a novelist.”

“Varric is a clever man with little to lose. No one could have found Hawke, Cassandra.”

“But if I had...” She didn't let the thought slip out. Wallowing was no better than fantasising. Varric was one of very few who hadn't spilled their secrets to her. And she hadn't been motivated by Most Holy’s death at the time.

She would break this man like a pane of glass if he tested her.

A knock at the door saw them stand up straight. Josephine Montilyet edged the door open, face half worry and half relief. Cassandra knew what he was about to say before she said it. Finally, something was happening.

“He's awake,” she said.

“Is he chained?” Cassandra brushed past her, already walking to the cells.

“Yes. He's a little disoriented. Solas says he shouldn't be distressed him if you want him cogent.”

“I don't care what Solas says.” She pushed the door to the dungeon open, ignoring the guards at attention.

Daylight shot through the bars, casting sharp shadows and making the light flicker as they walked. The other cells were empty. At the end of the hall she saw him, hands bound, on his knees with head bowed, long hair covering his face. It was a good position. Vulnerable. Hers for the taking.

She unlocked the door and circled around him, eyes on the walls, letting him stew. She looked down just as he looked up, caught by the bluest eyes she had ever seen. She had been wrong before. He hadn't been handsome at all in his rest. Now he was showing her where he got his nickname. It enraged her.

“Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now,” she demanded. “The conclave is destroyed, everyone who attended dead. Except for you.”

He looked lost, forlorn. An act she'd seen a dozen times. “You think I did something.”

“You didn't? Then explain this.” She grabbed him by the hand, forcing his big hand open and exposing the eerie flare of green light in his palm. He jerked back from the light, holding his arm extended, eyes locked on the strange magic.

“I can't.”

“What do you mean you can't?”

“I don't know what that is or how it got there,” his voice rose.

“You're lying!” He shouldn't have tested her. All those people dead, the Divine dead, and he had the audacity to play dumb. Innocent or guilty he couldn't know nothing. He had been at the Conclave, he was there the moment of the explosion.

She struck out, but Leliana got to her first, diverting her arm to make the blow go wide.

“We need him, Cassandra,” Leliana reminded her.

Their eyes met for a long moment. This was her interrogation, she wouldn't be undermined. Her anger was both justified and necessary.

“Are they all dead?” Seamus Trevelyan brought their attention back to him, eyes soft and pleading. “Everyone at the Conclave? How could that happen?”

Cassandra crossed her arms, pacing in front of him. It was possible, not likely, but possible, that the explosion had addled him enough to forget. She didn't believe it, but there was room to manoeuvre.

“What do you remember?”

He shook his head and furrowed his brow, his words coming in short bursts. “I remember running. Things were chasing me and then... a woman? A woman reached out to me.”

Cassandra locked eyes with him. This man was a charlatan. The story was too coordinated, his innocence played too perfectly, his eyes too blue. He had to be lying. He had to be.

But that treacherous golden idea glowed bright. Even if her every instinct told her that he was lying there was some chance, however remote, that he was not.


	5. After - Three

All things considered, Josephine couldn't have planned better propaganda for the Inquisition if she had tried. The transition into the Divine's honour guard was a somewhat difficult time and she would leave them once it was complete, but this wedding had been a stroke of luck. All interested parties were witness to them dismantling their forces, they all got to stare at their Inquisitor to their heart's content and a wedding's festivities put everyone at ease.

The welcome banquet was a sight to behold. Duke Gaspard was drinking heavily with Lady Hawke. Grand Enchanter Fiona chatted pleasantly with Vivienne. The Warden Commander and Morrigan shared a silent meal. All parties, interested, wounded and uplifted were present and accounted for, and all were at least docile if not happy. It was perfect.

Thank the Maker those two had fallen in love.

The grand hall was full of music and talk and down the stairs in the yard the household staff of a hundred nobles had their own feast. She had spared no expense. It was no Winter Palace but the Great Hall was filled with tables covered in shot silver cloths, candles burning brightly, good wine flowing. A last hurrah for the intact Inquisition before they began to reduce.

The only blemish on the night was the obvious, growing discomfort of the bridegroom. It had to be his arm, she had decided early in the night. He was keeping details sparse, even with her, but it continued to trouble him. He found the energy to gaze lovingly at his future wife but little more.

Josephine had her own seat at the banquet but barely saw it, instead making the rounds. She politely excused herself from the company of the Nevarran ambassador, a distant cousin to Cassandra, and made her way to the high table.

She leaned over the Inquisitor's shoulder. “Your Worship, I appreciate you putting on a brave face but you may be doing more harm than good at this point.”

“Is it that obvious?” he asked.

“I'm afraid so. I can make your excuses. You should take rest, tomorrow will be eventful.”

Seamus cast about the room for a moment, then nodded and began to rise. Cassandra rose with him but he laid a hand on her arm. “Stay, love. One of us should be here. I just need sleep.”

Cassandra frowned, but sat down again. The Inquisitor kissed Cassandra goodnight, rather scandalously if Josephine's opinion was known, before allowing himself to be led to the staircase. It took a few assurances that she had everything under control, but soon she was back to circulating.

It was only too easy to sell the love story to the adoring nobles. Most wanted to believe it anyway and so lapped up her exaggerated tales of a romance she had barely seen. It was too easy to spin. A forbidden love, certain death, gods, dragons, magisters, forces working to pull them apart. Varric would be writing the novelisation.

She glanced around, taking some note of those still there and who had slipped away for some backroom dealing. The Warden Commander and Morrigan were gone. They were old friends, she thought she had heard. Or perhaps old enemies. Hawke, Gaspard and Varric were also missing, hopefully they had taken their drinking games to the rowdier party outside.

She found King Alistair being bored to death by Arl Teagan, his mind clearly a thousand miles from the conversation. She murmured to a servant to refill the king's drink, then approached him and bowed.

“Your Majesty, how good of you to attend in person.”

The king looked up at her. “Nothing like a bracing ride up the Frostbacks to get the blood pumping. Ambassador Montilyet, isn't it?”

“May I sit?”

The king looked at the chair beside him as though seeing it for the first time. He hastily pulled it out for her. “Of course, excuse my manners. King of the land of dogs, I am. Do you know Arl Teagan?”

Josephine met eyes with the Arl, pretending to ignore his expression. “We've met.”

“Yes, please excuse me, Your Majesty, Ambassador.” The Arl stood and walked away without waiting for his king's permission.

King Alistair was famous for being difficult to ruffle and easy to please. She hardly needed to pay him a visit at all but it still seemed rude to ignore visiting royalty. He was handsome, young and unmarried. It was a small miracle. Kings were the highest prizes for social climbers, he must have been constant quarry in the Fereldan court.

“I would have thought to find you with the Warden Commander. It is surprising to see her make a public appearance.”

The King's eyes shot straight to the Commander. He had known where she was and decided not to go to her. Interesting.

“Ah, yes. We don't really have many happy memories to reminisce about. Blight and all that.”

“War is always less glorious than we imagine it to be.”

“It was very dull, really.” He took a sip from his cup. “Lots of camping. If there hadn't been any darkspawn it would have just been a very average holiday. I hear your war at least had a few dragons to slay.”

Josie laughed. “It's true, The Inquisitor and Lady Cassandra slew many of the beasts together.”

“How romantic.”

She leaned in conspiratorially and pointed to Cassandra. “Do you see her sword?”

“A little.” It was obscured where she sat but a flash of white was still visible. It mattered little, that was not the point of her story.

“The Inquisitor had it made for her from the bones of the first dragon they slew. He presented it to her as a symbol of his devotion. She says that was the moment she knew she loved him.” That was not entirely true, but also not entirely untrue. Cassandra would never confess such a thing but it had been hard to miss.

Alistair laughed into his cup. He had a handsome smile. “So Trevelyan knows how to woo the ladies. Well good for him. I half want to marry him just hearing about it.”

“There is no future queen in your sights?”

“Ah, no. I suppose there should be, but no.”

“There are many people here tonight. Would you fancy a Nevarran bride?”

“I don't know, I've sort of got my sights set on the Inquisitor now.”

Josephine was unfortunate enough to be taking a sip of wine as he said this and had to spit it back into the glass to keep from snorting it out her nose. It was easy to see why people liked him. He offered her an apologetic look for her sudden state.

She took a breath to stop the laughter bubbling up in her throat, and when she could speak again she said, “Well you have twelve hours to sweep him off his feet.”

“A tough job, I'll give you that. But I might instead excuse myself. You have a chantry here, I've heard? Seems right to pray for them the day before their wedding.”

“In the gardens. Let me escort you.”

“No, no. I couldn't impose,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I'm sure you have your work cut out for you tonight.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, bowing her head and letting him slip into the crowd.

It was hard not to measure the rest of her conversations against that one. She found her eyes glazed over as dukes and thanes talked of the food and the social season. She picked up the occasional bit of gossip and entertained herself watching Cassandra get equally bored until Vivienne chased off the offending parties and took Seamus' vacated seat.

She would miss these people terribly when she went back to Antiva. Sad how things must come to an end, but even if she stayed most of them would move on. Their formation had been a true blessing, for her and for all of them.

Josephine was startled back to the present when the lord she was talking to was suddenly overcome by a look of alarm. She followed his gaze and saw what had caught his attention. Cullen. Cullen making a beeline for Cassandra, his face white and eyes hard. Something had happened. A sharp lance of fear shot through her.

She made as much haste as she could without making a scene. Cullen's hand rested tense on the pommel of his sword. Any number of disasters might have befallen them at such a politically volatile event. Knowing her luck some Orlesians had started duelling over their wine preferences. But he looked far too serious for it to be about their guests.

She intercepted him just before he reached Cassandra, who rose to meet him.

“Josie, call the healers,” he ordered without preamble. “Don't arouse suspicion. And tell my men to be at the ready. Cassandra...”

“What has happened?” Cassandra asked.

“It's Seamus. I think he's been poisoned.”


	6. Before - Three

Providence.

That's what Cassandra had said, so confidently in the moment, and now she worked to rearrange her feelings to keep that confidence.

If it had made her furious that he was beautiful and gentle, it set her burning that he was compliant, kind and generous. He walked and spoke with the commanding presence of a natural leader. He surrendered his weapon to her even though he didn't need it. He humbly claimed to know nothing of Andraste's presence or lack thereof. He rearranged the hinterlands around Redcliffe to protect the refugee settlement.

He was either Andraste come again or a snake oil salesman who could topple the faith and she had no way of knowing which.

But she could put her faith in Andraste. If there was any sense to be made of this it was that giving the anchor to the frail Divine would not have worked. Instead they had been given a strong young man who for whatever reason was willing to work with them. She had to see the Maker's hand in that. It made sense. They could build an Inquisition around it.

That didn't make it much easier to work with the man himself.

Wherever she turned he was always there. Every strategy meeting, every decision, every political move had his fingerprints on it. The rest of them had known Justinia, proven their devotion to her and her vision. She and Leliana had been the right and left hands of the Divine, Cullen was her long time friend and Josephine was close with Leliana. The newly minted Herald of Andraste so often intruded on private grief.

He sat in the corner of the war room, one leg slung over the arm of his chair, a book of demons in his hand. And he belonged. She had founded the Inquisition with him on her side. She would even go so far as to call him their de facto leader. But it felt wrong.

“It's just a book,” he startled her by speaking.

“Pardon?”

He held out the book. “You're looking at this thing like it's going to attack you. I promise the pictures aren't real.”

Cassandra turned away. She hadn't realised she had been staring. Or glaring. “You've met them before.”

“Demons? A few times. Mostly my dreams are just dreams.” He closed the book and sat forward. “Is that what worries you about me, Seeker Pentaghast? Are you afraid that I might turn?”

“It's always a risk with mages.”

“And you'd rather Andraste had picked a templar.”

She sat down at the table, turning her full attention to him. “So you do think Andraste chose you.”

“I'm not saying that. But I don't believe in accidents, not this kind.”

“If the Maker engineered your survival then it would follow that you are protected by him. If He wills your success you must succeed. You are infallible until you've achieved your purpose. Do you believe in certainties, Lord Trevelyan?”

“No.”

“Then where does that leave us? If it was no accident and no certainty?”

She had been sparring with Varric too long, learning the patterns to his tricky words, leading arguments around in circles until their original purpose was forgotten. It was a petty, childish impulse to jab at him and she should have known better.

But he offered no witty repartee, instead leaning forward further, brow furrowed. “I'm trying my best, Seeker. I don't know if it will be enough, but I can try. And I'm trying to give you space.”

She was taken aback at his insight and her own transparency. “We are all stuck in this together. Space is a luxury we cannot afford.”

“There's room for mourning. We all admired the Divine, but I know it was different for you and Leliana. She was your friend.”

“You know, do you?” He was not going to connect with her. She would not allow that to happen. If this fell apart she would be devastated enough as it was. “Tell me, Lord Trevelyan, which demon tempted you the most?”

He brushed off her tone. “They all offer things, they give out a little preview. Pride promises you a crown, desire offers you...” He coughed, realising what he was about to say. “This one week I had taken kitchen duty. I was sweet on a templar who had been assigned down there for the week. At the end of it a demon found me.”

“And you were... tempted?” She feared what direction this story might take.

“Sloth.”

“Sloth?” She raised an eyebrow. Not what she had expected.

“I was so tired from kitchen duty. It offered me weeks of restful sleep, I can't describe it. I would have agreed to almost any bargain.”

A scoff of laughter escaped her lips before she could stop it. He smiled at her. No woman alive could withstand that smile and stay hard-hearted. She gave in and let out a sputtering laugh at the thought of him working hard to impress a girl only to become more interested in a good night's sleep when all was said and done.

“And the girl?” she asked.

“I was too shy to ever say anything.”

“You're lying.”

“I swear it.”

“How would any girl ignore the attention of Handsome Seamus?” She asked the question before she had entirely thought it through. She only realised what she'd said when he groaned loudly and covered his face with his hands.

“Please tell me that nickname hasn't followed me.”

She had caught herself out for gossiping with Leliana. It was clear that there was no dignified exit from the situation so she followed his lead and told the truth. “Leliana's spies had... heard some rumours. They were discussed when we were identifying you.”

“I don't suppose I could hope that those rumours are confined to the council?”

They were not. She said nothing, allowing him to wallow in his mortification as she wallowed in hers. He cradled his head in his hands a moment longer before shaking it off and giving her a wry smile. “I suppose there are worse things.”

“I will do my best to stem this, Lord Trevelyan, it's not appropriate for...”

He waved her off. “It's alright. The troops could use a laugh at my expense. It looks like it did you a world of good.”

Her awkwardness sharpened to shame. If he was as sincere as he appeared she had been needling and shunning him for no good reason. She was still not sure about him, there were liars in this world who appeared far more sincere, but for the moment the fault was with her and not him.

“I am... sorry for taking such a harsh tone, my lord. It is my nature and my duty to be suspicious.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” He set his book aside and stood up. “I think I'll retire for the night, if you'll excuse me. We're heading out to the Hinterlands tomorrow, but tonight there are no immediate disasters.”

“Space,” she said.

“Space,” he agreed, some twinkle in his eye as he nodded politely and made his exit.

Cassandra stared at the door he had just shut and Maker, was her face hot? He had done it to her again. No one could be so earnest, so vulnerable and tender with a woman who barely disguised her dislike of him. And yet a few well placed words, a sympathetic tale, and those lips and those eyes and hands and here she was, not only tamed but blushing.

She slammed her palm against the table. This man was too dangerous for anyone's good.


	7. After - Four

“It was the essence of laurel,” the mage leaning over the Inquisitor straightened and turned to them. “An undiluted dose. He's alive. For now.”

The bottle sat, stoppered, on his night stand. There was no sign of a struggle except perhaps the mussed sheets of his bed. The loft was silent, cool night air blowing in from the mountain peaks and ruffling the curtains. The Inquisitor's condition could have been mistaken for peaceful sleep.

That's what Cullen had thought at first. Until he'd tried to rouse him.

Cassandra stood beside the bed, ash white, her eyes fixed on her fiance. He estimated they had at least a few minutes before the shock wore off and she started calling for heads.

“What was he doing with that?” Cullen asked. “It's not a drug mages use. It renders them helpless.”

“It wasn't recreational,” Cassandra said. “It was for the pain.”

While it was slightly better than finding out their leader had a drug habit, Cullen shot Cassandra a glare. He knew the Inquisitor was having trouble after losing his arm, but no one had told him that it was so bad. He should have been informed. Now the man himself was poisoned with his own stash of contraband.

“Are we refining it here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“No.”

“How could you, of all people, be so irresponsible?” He hated the words as soon as he said them.

She didn't even look at him. “How long does he have?”

The mage was hunched over his bag, setting out tinctures and powders, working busily. “Difficult to say, Lady Seeker, not knowing the dose or when it was taken. We may be in time to counteract it but it will be at least a day before we know anything.”

The rustling of fabric drifted from the stairs, followed shortly by Josephine and Leliana. The Divine her held habit in her hands, face grim. “What do we know?”

“He's dying,” Cassandra said.

Cullen glanced at her. He wanted to take her to task for keeping secrets from him, but she wasn't there enough to make any point of it. He gestured to the other women to follow him out onto the balcony, giving them some privacy.

“It was laurel essence, he was taking it for the pain. He's alive for now but we don't know his outlook.”

“If it was his own medicine is it possible that he mistook the dosage?” Josephine asked. “Perhaps this was just a tragic accident.”

“An easy thing to do,” Leliana said. “I might believe it if he didn't have a hundred enemies downstairs to profit from this.”

“This is the most peace the Inquisition has ever known. Who would choose now to strike?”

Cullen scoffed. “People who felt wronged by our actions when we formed. People who didn't get their way at the Exalted Council. The world is happy enough with us becoming Leliana's honour guard but a lot would be happier if we dissolved entirely. Someone might have thought to take the head of the snake and watch the body wither.”

“The people down there are enchanted by the Inquisitor and Cassandra,” Josephine said. “Many may be disgruntled but the sentiment tonight was not one of political tension.”

“Those that stayed were enchanted,” Leliana said. “There were more than a few to slip away from the feast.”

Damn him for a fool, he should have been more vigilant. Everything had been so relaxed the past week, busy but rewarding. Between the food, the drink, seeing Mia again and even Theodora, he had let himself get lulled into a false sense of security. Half that hall had a reason to want Seamus dead and now they might have their way.

“Morrigan left early,” he said. “I saw her heading for the library. As did the Grand Enchanter.”

“Gaspard and Hawke, I think they were together,” Josephine said. She paused a moment. “Arl Teagan as well.”

“I was catching up with Theodora, but she... It couldn't be her.” Leliana frowned, looking between them for some sympathy for her assessment. “Why would she? She wasn't even here when we were dealing with Grey Wardens.”

“Exiling the Grey Wardens, you mean,” Cullen reminded her. He didn't want to accuse her either, but it had been ten years since either of them had known her.

“She is a celebrated hero and a personal friend. I know we need to be pragmatic but this can't become a witch hunt.”

“And the Revered Mothers who accompanied you here? Where are they?”

“At prayer, as you might imagine they often are. But I would believe their guilt before I believed Theodora's.”

“Commander, your Perfection,” Josephine cut between them. “The Inquisitor may yet wake unharmed, and our friends may yet be quickly exonerated, let us not have these discussions before we know they are needed. Many of our trusted allies were keeping our guests company, and the doors to the courtyard were guarded by our finest soldiers. I suggest we gather information before we begin pointing fingers.”

Cullen took a breath. She was right. “I'll order the gates closed, not to open without my personal approval. There's no need to cause a panic or take hostages, we can keep this under wraps for tonight at least.”

“We may have a bigger problem than a riot from the guests.” Leliana glanced back into the bedroom.

Cassandra hadn't moved. She stood still as a statue, the whole scene a tableau except for the mage who measured, poured, cast inside the unmoving image. A pang of sympathy took Cullen. He'd been friends with her for years, he knew she wasn't nearly as cold or stiff as people thought. But that didn't change that Seamus made her warm in a way he hadn't seen before. She had been his constant shadow these three years and as soon as she realised she might lose him their reasoned discussion of suspects was not going to satisfy her.

“If he dies...” he started, but didn't know how to finish. Cassandra had her moments of temper, some of them quite extended, but she had never killed anyone unjustified. She had always come to her senses before disaster.

If Seamus died he didn't know if that would hold true. She would need someone to blame.

Josephine examined the situation for a moment, then brushed past them. She grabbed the heavy chair from beside the window with both hands and dragged it to the bedside. Cullen helped her, the two of them managing the weight more easily.

Josie took Cassandra by the arm and tried to guide her to the chair, but she resisted. “No, I can't be just sitting here, doing nothing.”

“The gates are locked, we are compiling a list of the guests. There is nothing you can do about them tonight. Be here with him.”

After a little more urging she sat, taking Seamus' hand and returning to her trance. Josephine was patient with her and she wouldn't have tolerated it on a better day. But she was broken in that moment. The fiercest warrior in the Inquisition had no fight in her.

With the Inquisitor and his right hand out of commission Cullen knew he would have to take charge.

“I'm going to speak with my men, secure the hold,” he said. “Josie, get the guest list. Let's find out who we're dealing with. Leliana, I would never accuse the Divine of keeping spies in Skyhold, but...”

She nodded. “I'll see what I can find out.”

“Quickly, quietly. Let's get ahead of this before our guests wake up tomorrow.”

–


	8. Before - Four

 

“I don't see what your objection is, Cassandra.” Leliana swirled a drink idly with one hand, looking out over the Frostbacks. “He's perfect. Val Royeaux couldn't have gone better.”

“He's absurd.” Cassandra tossed her gloves to one side and cracked the first buckle on her breastplate. “You should have seen him rush to aid the Revered Mother. It was like a scene from a play.”

“So you're complaining that he's too good to be the Herald?”

“He's too good to be real. No one is as pure of heart as he pretends to be.”

“I didn't think I'd have to say this now, but if that's your biggest worry you need more things to be worried about.”

Cassandra set her breastplate aside, free at last after a long day. She took the drink Leliana offered and joined her at the railing. “If he's not all he seems we are a heretical cult taking advantage of the power vacuum.”

“We already are. I would have liked to see Val Royeaux myself. Did the whole crowd do the thing?”

'The thing' being the double-take everyone did on instinct when first meeting the Herald, much to the amusement of most of his inner circle.

Cassandra sighed. “An inappropriate question.”

“So they did. It's a little funny, don't you think? He must have been greeted with the same look from everyone for years. He probably thinks meeting people is a lot more surprising than it is.”

“This is not the time for levity, we need to be prepared.”

“Don't mistake me for naïve, Cassandra. My spies are with him every second. He doesn't have a nose hair I don't know about, much less an agenda. And if I wasn't so prepared I could count on you. You've been his shadow since he set foot in Haven, I'm surprised you're not with him now.”

Cassandra scoffed. “He's gone to meet with Vivienne de Fer. Another mage from Ostwick. I begged off.”

“I bet he loved that.”

“I would be surprised if he cared. I'm not his only bodyguard and I have work here.”

Leliana suppressed a smile that sent a suspicious shiver through Cassandra. These were her just desserts for gossiping with a spymaster. She would never know as much as she ought to for these conversations.

“I'm surprised you're so calm about it, then,” Leliana said with a spark of mischief in her eye.

“Calm about what? The Herald can attend a party without a chaperone,” Cassandra said.

“I've heard Vivienne de Fer is very beautiful.” 

“What are you implying, Leliana?”

“Only that you've enjoyed a disproportionate amount of our Herald's attention,” Leliana said.

“Absurd. Your spies are misleading you.”

“I don't need spies to count the number of times he's visited me privately compared to how often I see him headed to your training yard.”

Leliana couldn't be saying what she thought she was saying. It wasn't like her to tease, not like that. Everyone enjoyed Seamus' attention, he made a point of getting to know anyone who stood still long enough. She'd watched perfect strangers spill their deepest secrets to him with little provocation.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said icily. The sooner this line of conversation ended, the better.

“Are you saying he hasn't been flirting with you?”

She tightened her fist around her cup. He hadn't. Had he? There had been a moment, swiftly gone, when she could have mistaken a compliment for something more. She shoved the thought aside. “Some men are naturally flirtatious.”

“He seems to have restrained himself well enough with everyone else.” Leliana looked at her and her expression turned from teasing to sympathy. She spoke more gently. “He likes you. It's alright to have a friend, you don't have to pick it apart.”

That hit a spot she hadn't realised was tender, making her flinch back in pain. As much as Varric enjoyed needling her about having no friends, it was untrue. But did she like them? Respect sprung to mind. Loyalty followed it. It was humbling to realise that people seeking her out for companionship felt so alien, and far more humbling that Leliana knew it.

Should she be jealous that he was off meeting a beautiful mage with whom he shared a common background? She hadn't thought to be. If he enjoyed her company as a friend then it didn't matter where else he spent his time.

“I need to go.” She spun on her heel, leaving her drink behind, overcome with the urge to hit something.

“Cassandra, I meant no offence.”

“And none was taken. I'll see you tomorrow.”

She left the chantry and made her way down to the training yards again. This time, free of her armour and with all the recruits retired for the day, she picked up her sword in the cool evening air.

The training dummies were satisfying targets, straw and light wood splintering under her blows. She worked until her muscles tired and she was red-faced with effort. There was no particular face in mind for the dummy today, she just wanted the restlessness to go away. She had sunk into exhausted sleep almost every night since the Conclave and didn't want to break that tradition by lying awake considering Leliana's words.

She had been so focused on whether Seamus Trevelyan would save or damn them, obsessed with justice for Most Holy, fighting the existential terror of demons pouring from rifts in the sky that she hadn't ever stopped to ask herself whether she liked him. And if she allowed her suspicions to relax for a moment, she did. She liked him. He was bright and thoughtful and never made sport of her. That didn't mean they were flirting.

She pierced the dummy with her sword, taking out its central support and letting it collapse. The horn sounded, signalling riders incoming, but she paid it no attention. She was far enough from the gates not to be disturbed.

But when she caught a flash of the Herald's dappled charger she couldn't help but look. He was riding to the stables accompanied by a woman. A beautiful woman, older but a picture of grace and poise. Vivienne de Fer. They were laughing about something she couldn't hear.

The Herald looked over and caught Cassandra's eye. A flash of panic took root in her chest. She was not presentable, half undressed and filthy from exertion. She could only imagine the way she jumped, moving as if it were early enough in this ordeal to hide from him.

Curse Leliana for putting this idea in her head. She was a Seeker, a founding member of the Inquisition, she could not hide like a scared child. And she should not have to.

He dismounted his horse at the stables, said something to Madame de Fer and then he was walking toward her. Loping, more like. An eager puppy happy to be home. He looked at her and his smile was dazzling. She couldn't keep her posture entirely natural.

Seamus looked between her and the dismembered dummy. “You're kind of a force of nature, aren't you?”

“You flatter me, my lord.”

“I'm trying.”

Cassandra cleared her throat, trying to remember that she looked like a dishevelled disaster. No matter how much Leliana desired it no man would flirt with her in this state.

“I see we have a new guest at Haven. I take it the social engagement went to plan.”

Seamus looked over his shoulder. “Vivienne de Fer. Her magic is impressive. We could use another powerful mage on our side.”

“I assumed you knew her from your circle.”

“Maybe when I was a child, but she left for court a long time ago. She knew my mentor.”

“You must have much to talk about. Don't let me keep you.” The second she said it she regretted her tone.

He frowned. “Alright, then. Have a pleasant evening, Seeker Pentaghast.”

“And you, my lord.”

She waited for him to leave before pressing the ball of her hand against her forehead. She was going to kill Leliana.

With a huff of frustration she set her eyes on her next target and raised her sword. It was going to take a lot more work to get her back to being tired.


	9. After - Five

The war room was crowded. The table that had once been used for strategy was now piled with fine white papers full of names, all the Inquisitor's friends going through them one by one, debating who they had seen and at what time. The sun was just threatening to peek over the horizon, their time was running short.

Leliana had missed this, the ceremony of her position was a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of Skyhold. She only wished she could have had this nostalgic re-enactment under better circumstances. This was hardly the first time Seamus had lain at death's door, and she had every faith that if recovery was possible he would do it. This was the first time they might be able to find a culprit to pin the blame on.

“I was with Gaspard, thank the Maker,” Dorian said. “We played chess most of the night.”

Josephine struck red through his name. “And his entourage?”

“With us. Pleasant enough fellows. Three of them, I think, all Orlesian.”

“Good, that accounts for all of them.”

A flurry of pages as they searched for the next name. Cullen held up another list. “What about Hawke?”

“With me,” said Varric. “Until I got called here.”

“And her paramour?” Leliana asked. “Was she with you?”

Varric frowned. “No. I assumed she was stealing something.”

“And we will talk about that later,” Josephine said. “Put her on the list for now.”

The List was growing long. People had been centralised enough for most of them to be seen, and the guards had taken note of the few people to slip from one party to the other, but with such a large guest list they simply couldn't keep track of them all.

They could at least strike off Isabella's crew, who were for the most part still legless in the yard with the Chargers. The freely flowing alcohol had taken many promising suspects off the list, leaving some far less politically convenient targets.

“Can someone please tell me they can account for the King of Ferelden,” Josephine begged. “He said he was going to the chapel.”

An awkward silence fell across the room. They had a King on their list of suspects. Disastrous for the Inquisition, and disastrous for Leliana personally if they were to be her honour guard.

“Perhaps we should revisit the idea of a catspaw.”

“No one came or went unnoted. Unless it was one of our own servants the assassin was in that hall. Let's not chase our tails on this again,” Cullen added the name to The List.

“Who are the worst case scenarios on the List?” Leliana asked.

He rifled through it, looking like a man twice his age. “King Alistair, Theodora, the Grand Enchanter and your Revered Mothers. Morrigan wouldn't be a political problem, but she can turn into a dragon.”

“None of them likely suspects.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “All except your escort have done their own dirty work before. Three of them are Grey Wardens, past or present, so they have enough motive after we banished the order from Orlais. The Grand Enchanter may not be happy that we're rejoining the Chantry after the Circles were disbanded, she may fear a return to the old ways.”

“I won't believe Alistair or Theodora were behind this,” Leliana said. It had been a long time since she had travelled with them, but surely time couldn't change everything. “Alistair wouldn't even have the stomach to order someone to do this. And Theodora doesn't care about anything but the Blight, not for a long time now.”

Theodora wouldn't get involved in politics, it was against the tenets that lived in her bones now. It had been one of the more shocking things she had ever seen, watching that young girl be broken into the mold of a Grey Warden. Less so with Alistair, but he hadn't changed a bit from what she'd seen. Even if he had, she couldn't imagine him carefully dolling out drops of poison. If he wanted to kill a man he'd use his sword.

Cullen looked at her. “Then I hope the others on this list have someone to speak on their behalf. Arl Teagan was also missing. Ferelden wants the Inquisition disbanded, they may have decided to take matters into their own hands.”

“It feels wrong. Poison on his wedding night, it's just so personal. Maybe we need to stop looking for enemies of the Inquisition and start looking at people who knew Seamus.”

“What about Morrigan?” Dorian suggested. “She knows him, at least. I can't imagine why but clear motives have never been her strong suit. What say you to that, your Perfection? You know her, yes?”

“I couldn't say. Clear motives weren't her strong suit ten years ago, either. I know she would kill him if she felt it necessary. We should pray it turns out to be one of the less politically volatile suspects. We still have plenty of them.”

She turned back to the papers, hoping to scratch off a few more, or if they were lucky find a better suspect. Sera furiously scribbled off name after name, having followed more than one person out of the party in hopes of collecting blackmail material. Dorian may have saved them the anxiety of having to accuse Gaspard, but had rendered himself otherwise useless with his limited interactions. The Bull and Blackwall had been at the lower party. Cole wasn't coherent enough to give them anything useful. Vivienne had been schmoozing.

No one in the library. No one in the gardens. Only Sera's wandering eyes in the private quarters. Anyone who had wanted a moment's privacy now found themselves suspect.

She would be having words with her Revered Mothers. They were not the only people to excuse themselves to “pray”. Thanks to her reforms she was already fighting fractures on a dozen fronts, she wouldn't have her inner circle working against her as well.

“So what are we telling people?” Varric asked, looking through the window at the sunrise.

“That the Inquisitor was attacked,” Cullen said. They hadn't discussed it, but it seemed right for the Commander to take charge. “If people know how bad it is they may try to take advantage of our weakness. For the moment he was attacked, he's recovering.”

“And the wedding is...?”

Cullen looked at Leliana. She had no answer for him. To cancel it would mean accepting Seamus' death as inevitable, as well as causing scandal throughout their guests. But there was no way to carry on without a groom.

“We have to cancel it,” he said finally. “We should start moving people out of here as soon as we can, as their alibis are confirmed.”

“And the...”

Josephine was cut off by the creak of the heavy door. An Inquisition guard held it open and Cullen opened his mouth to scold the interruption before they saw Cassandra. She looked ghoulish, Leliana admitted to herself. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken, her makeup half-smudged off, she clearly hadn't slept. A terrible shadow hung over her.

She marched into the silent room, not meeting anyone's eyes.

“How is he, Seeker?” Varric asked.

“Dying.”

Cullen laid a hand on her elbow. “We're getting through this, our list of suspects is nearly done. We'll begin moving people out this morning.”

“No one leaves,” Cassandra said.

“We can't detain half the Orlesian court-”

Cassandra slammed a paper down on the table, ornate with the seals of the Inquisition. “Seamus left instructions in the event of his death. I am to command the Inquisition in his absence. The gates stay shut. No one leaves.”

The two stared each other down for a long moment until Josephine put herself between them. “Please, most of our guests were intending to stay after the wedding, we are provisioned for a week. No one is a prisoner yet, we simply have many... honoured guests.”

“No one will want to stay with the wedding cancelled,” Leliana said.

“Then it is not cancelled. We can downplay the seriousness of the attack. Lord Trevelyan needs time to recover, but is determined to marry his beloved. If the assassin knows they failed it may lead to a desperate act, exposing them,” said Josephine.

Cullen and Cassandra locked eyes, neither blinking as both considered the course of action. It was Cassandra who looked away first, a little of the tension leaving her shoulders.

“Very well. Show me our list of suspects.”


	10. Before - Five

  
Cassandra saw the danger too late. They had been fools to challenge a time mage without the help of the templars. Her heart stopped when the green light flared and where the Herald had been standing was only empty space.

It must have been the space of a few heartbeats, but her mind raced ahead. If he was gone their last hope was that she and Varric could kill Alexius alone and stop this madness. The magister turned a triumphant sneer on them, raising his hands in victory. She was already three steps toward him, sword raised, when the light flared again. A whirling mass of green engulfed them and the Herald, slightly worse for wear, was back.

The energy in the room changed. Something had happened which she didn't understand, her heart still pounding in her ears. In those eternal seconds the Herald had returned and he was furious. For the first time she could remember she could see him shouting, huge hands gesturing angrily, face red. The reappearance sucked the fight out of Alexius. He fell to his knees before the enraged Herald.

A different man stood in place of gentle Seamus Trevelyan. Unable to lower her sword with her body still sparking from fear and adrenaline, she awaited the order to execute the magister.

“Get him out of my sight,” Seamus spat, turning away. Their spies moved to put the man in chains and Cassandra wasn't sure what to do. She had expected this sudden loss of temper to turn violent.

He looked at her and her breath caught in her throat. Relief and fear were writ large across his face, as though he was experiencing some profound moment. Something terrible had happened in that moment he had disappeared.

It disoriented her enough to leave herself out of what followed. The King of Ferelden arguing with the Grand Enchanter, who seemed devastated by every word he spoke, somehow ended up with them taking the mages for themselves.

Cassandra tried to warn the Herald but he didn't heed her.

They had freed the mages of Ferelden and Orlais. Taken them as allies.

She spoke on his behalf, reaffirming her loyalty and her support, but fear curdled inside her. Leliana had reassured her over and over that his seeming good was almost as good as him being good, but she had her doubts. This was what she feared.

They were building up an army, convincing the people of his divinity, giving him so much authority that if he said mages should be free then they would be. She had taken him for cautious. The templars had grown out of control, the circles no longer a bastion of order but torture chambers, yet there was equal danger in abolishing them out of hand. Magisters like Alexius were living proof of it.

She had a precious length of time to herself while the Herald's agents arranged for Fiona's people to transfer to Haven. She climbed to the top of Redcliffe and sat on the cliff above the waterfall, watching the waning sun catch in autumnal leaves. It was a beautiful place.

If she could choose she would have all her fears slip away into the water. Seamus never claimed Andraste had touched him, but it was still the basis of their Inquisition. It would make her life so much easier to believe it without question. So much easier if there was no fear that she was enabling a madman to run amok.

It was peaceful to look out over the entire town, seeing everyone go about their business while she felt invisible on her perch. Invisible to almost everyone. She saw him coming up the hill long before she heard him.

He sat down next to her but said nothing, the tips of his boot dragging along the water's surface. She watched the town, but while his eyes were fixed with hers, she had a suspicion he was watching her, as well.

“So,” he said. “You hate this.”

She turned a side eye on him. “I gave you my support. You made a decision when it needed to be made.”

“But you hate it.”

“I suppose I hoped everything would be the same after the war was over, but better.”

“It still could be.”

She let out a wry laugh. “You don't believe that. Mages have their freedom now, for better or worse. I know our very existence depends on defying the Chantry, but this breaks with centuries of tradition. A person could argue that the Chantry's purpose is to keep magic in check.”

“We both know the circles weren't working.”

“You liked yours well enough.”

“I did. If they were all like mine we wouldn't be in the middle of a war.”

She leaned forward, getting some space from him. “And you think these mages are the best candidates for your new philosophy? They swore themselves to a Tevinter magister and nearly destroyed the world.”

“They were desperate. I want to give them a chance to find out who they are when they're free.”

“Things done in desperation are still things done.”

“I know,” he looked down, eyes sad. “This could all go wrong, but I’m not going to let anything bad happen if I can help it. I couldn’t leave them there.”

Cassandra softened. “I know. I wouldn’t have supported you if I didn’t think you up to the task. I only hope we don’t end up fighting a battle on two fronts if these mages have been corrupted by their time in a Magister’s service.”

His frown only deepened. “I saw things, Seeker. A glimpse of the future. A dozen magisters couldn't scare me more.”

She didn't know what to say. There was probably some proper protocol for dealing with a friend having such a crisis, but she had no idea what it was. Maybe punching him on the shoulder? Hugging him?

He shifted in place, his knee coming into contact with hers. She stiffened, but allowed the contact. That was it, probably. Silent camaraderie. That was what this was. The kind that any soldier should offer her brother-in-arms.

“We have to stop it,” he confessed quietly. “The Elder One won't be put off by this. We can't let him win.”

“You saw something that troubled you. More than the end of the world.”

He raised his eyes to the sky and stayed silent so long that she doubted he had heard her. After a while he sighed. “I saw you. You, Varric and Leliana, in the future. Alexius captured you.”

“I see.” The words sunk in slowly, the kind she would remember in the quiet moments late at night. 

“You were dying.” The wood under them creaked as he squeezed the edge of one plank. “You sacrificed yourself to give me a chance to return.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“They were alone and in pain and they thought no one would come for them. I can’t let that be our future. I’ve been a coward all my life and now people depend on me. I have to do better by you.”

She struggled for words, trying to meet his sincerity but unsure how to comfort him. His naked concern for a version of her who would never exist was genuine. When he had burst back into reality from that distant future, his fury had bloomed and rolled from him in waves, and now she knew that he had just seen them die. It was on their behalf he had been so emotional, made himself so vulnerable.

She swallowed to stop her voice from breaking. “You are no coward. A coward would not have taken up this mantle, breach or no breach.”

“I want you to know that I would never abandon you. The Inquisition, I mean,” he corrected quickly. He looked at his hands. “Anyone on my team. If you had been captured today, I would be coming for you.”

“Lord Trevelyan...” she breathed, a lump in her throat stopping any possibility of eloquence. Her alarm at the sudden intimacy of his confession must have been written on her face because he moved his leg away from hers.

“I've embarrassed you.”

“No! I... It's...”

He didn't give her much chance to object, climbing to his feet just as the last rays of sun slipped out of view. She didn't follow, rooted in place and unable to meet his eyes.

He waited patiently for her to look at him and offered her a small bow. “Let me leave you to your peace, Lady Pentaghast. We'll ride together back to Haven, when everyone is ready.”

She nodded mutely, all reply snatched from her throat. His footsteps retreated and she lay back against the bridge, trying to catch her breath.


	11. After - Six

“'You're Fereldan, you should talk to him',” Cullen mimicked to himself under his breath, still kicking himself for being talked into this. “Unbelievable.”

 

They had messengers take the news out, but Josephine wanted their most important guests told in person. So he was tasked with telling the King of Ferelden that he was held hostage without using those words.

 

People were slow to rise after such a big night, most still asleep, but they had been asked to get to them before anyone started getting ready for the wedding. Cullen just didn't want to be involved if he caught the king with five serving girls in his quarters or something else scandalous. Josie and Seamus were good at this sort of thing, they usually covered for Cassandra and him.

 

Thankfully he was spared any embarrassment, the king was already out of his quarters, trading stiff words with Theodora on the parapet. The two stood with arms crossed, three or four feet apart. It didn't look like a conversation to be interrupted but he was grateful enough for a third person's presence that he didn't mind the social nicety.

 

“Your Majesty, Warden Commander,” he greeted.

 

Both looked like they had been doused with cold water, startled at his presence.

 

King Alistair shook off the surprise. “Commander Cullen. Beautiful morning for it. It looks like you got less sleep than us.”

 

“I'm afraid so, I'm the bearer of bad news this morning. The wedding is delayed, someone took a swing at the Inquisitor last night. He's recovering.”

 

He had been prepared to take note of their reactions, as evidence one way or another. But rather than surprise or grim knowledge they looked at each other like it was instinct. Strange for a pair who had looked like they might detest each other up until a moment ago.

 

“That does put a damper on things,” Alistair said.

 

“How bad is the injury?” Theodora asked.

 

“He'll recover soon,” Cullen said. “We hope you'll accept enjoying the festivities before the wedding, rather than the other way around.”

 

“And what poor slob has been charged with the attack?”

 

Cullen drew a blank. They hadn't discussed this, or they had among the other hundred matters and it had slipped his mind. He had no story to tell.

 

The king's polite smile turned suspicious. “I see. So when you say 'please stay another few days', you mean...”

 

“Please excuse me, gentlemen,” Theodora said with a bow. “I'll be in my quarters when you need me.”

 

The men watched her go, perhaps for a second longer than was necessary. He had to find time to speak with her, it was bizarre watching this stranger wander around in Teddy's body.

 

“When did she get manners?” Cullen asked, bemused, before remembering who he was speaking to.

 

King Alistair shrugged. “About ten years ago. I think being a Warden Commander as well as a scoundrel made her schedule too full.”

 

“Of course, I sometimes forget that you fought the Blight with her.”

 

“Easy to remember in a history book, harder to put faces to names? You and I have met before, actually. I doubt you'd remember, you weren't at your best.”

 

“I'm sorry, your Majesty, I don't...” He was certain he'd never met this man before. He'd led an eventful life, but not quite eventful enough to forget meeting his own king.

 

“It was in the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad. You'd been captured by abominations. I think you thought you were hallucinating us.”

 

He hadn't had enough sleep for this. He remembered, minutes or hours or days into his torture by the abominations, seeing that sweet funny mage who had left him. She came back, eyes blazing, her words so gentle and promising to free him. He had cursed her for a desire demon and refused to listen. One of many hallucinations designed to torment him with the promise of freedom. If he thought about it, which he didn't care to, he remembered there were people behind her.

 

“That was real? That was you?”

 

“You know Wardens, fighting the good fight on occasion. Good to see you recovered.”

 

“Then I never thanked you, I'm sorry. You did me a great service, and the mages in that tower.”

 

King Alistair waved him off. “I wasn't running the show. Don't tell Teagan I'm being modest, but I don't deserve a lot of credit for that one.”

 

“I'll thank you nonetheless. I know she didn't do it alone.”

 

The king leaned against the railing, arms crossed, relaxed but ready. He gave Cullen an appraising glance, the ghost of exasperated humour on his face. “This is all very nice, reliving the glory days, but I expect you came here to ask me something.”

 

And here was the awkward part he had been anticipating. “No one is making any accusations.”

 

“Yet,” finished the king. “Go ahead, I won't hold it against you.”

 

“Where were you last night?”

 

“Praying, as I told your ambassador I would be. Or at least sheltering in the chapel from the blasted heat, I can't say much actual praying went on.”

 

At least his story was consistent. “Was there anyone with you?”

 

“No, I hadn't really thought I'd need witnesses.” The king frowned. “He's badly hurt, isn't he? So badly he can't tell you who did it. So now you're scrambling to find out who it was before they slip off back to their castle or chateau or keep and you never see them again.”

 

If he had his own way the king would be right, but he wasn't in charge as of Cassandra's reappearance. No one would be slipping back anywhere until she was satisfied and he could only pray that she didn't take it far enough to start a war. It wouldn't do any good to panic the guests by informing them of their hostess' mood, so he nodded. “We're not worried. The Inquisitor has been in far worse scrapes and he won't have the wedding cancelled. We'll get this mess sorted out and be back on schedule by tomorrow, I expect.”

 

“I hope so, Trevelyan is a good sort. Give him my best, will you? I'll make sure my people stay out of your way.”

 

Cullen took the dismissal, nodded to the king and found his way down from the parapets. Most of the keep would know soon, already the energy in the air had changed from lazy revelry to dismay. The Orlesian gossip mongers would be too wrapped up in the scandal of it to worry about the implications, so that kept them out of the way at least. Josephine would handle them, at least keep the place from turning into a complete circus for now.

 

Cullen was satisfied, as Leliana had predicted, that King Alistair was not behind this, and the man was calm tempered enough to be kept docile until Cassandra opened the gates again. Leliana was right about a lot of things. The whole thing smelled funny. Enough people wanted the Inquisitor dead that an attack was hardly surprising. But for it to come from nowhere, to be so brutally efficient and on such a day was almost beyond the realm of belief. They were looking for either for a sadist or someone with a very personal vendetta.

 

He liked Morrigan for it, if only because she was close enough to their inner circle without being a part of it. Leliana knew her the best, so she was nominated for the interrogation. His own list was short and less than urgent but he could still cast no undue judgements. This was as grim a matter as Skyhold had ever seen.

 

Josie's office was stacked high with papers, somehow more chaotic than when he left. Her scribes bustled around, doing whatever it was they did. The woman herself was always composed, but they had been friends long enough that he could see the cracks. No sleep and worry over the Inquisitor were wearing on her.

 

“Commander, bring me some good news,” she said.

 

He took the seat opposite her, grateful to be off his feet. “King Alistair has agreed to stay peacefully. He doesn't have any witnesses, but I think we can strike him off our list with some confidence. Any progress here?”

 

“One of Captain Isabella's crew is unaccounted for last night. Our guards say he spent at least a quarter hour at the upper feast before leaving again, and at the right time.”

 

“That's a relief, if we can get a confession out of him. Why would Isabella do such a thing?”

 

“A mountain of gold, presumably. There is more than one reward offered by our enemies. We don't know anything yet, we must be vigilant with the rest of our guests.” She crossed King Alistair off the list with a flourish.

 

“I'd like to get my sister and nephew out of here as soon as we can. If there's a panic I don't want them caught up in it.”

 

Josephine looked up from her work. “Now may not be the best time for such a course of action. Cassandra won't take kindly to being undermined. Keeping her calm is going to be half the battle.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Mia's biggest involvement in politics is thinking King Alistair is handsome. Or are we accusing the ten-year-old?”

 

“Cassandra needs our support. You know we would never let any harm come to your family.” She looked back down and picked up her pen again, neatly cutting off any argument. “Now, for my records, where was the King last night? He may have seen something.”

 

“Alone in the chapel. I'd be there too, if I was forced to keep company with Arl Teagan.”

 

Josephine closed her eyes as if taking a moment to find the strength to deal with his words. “Alone?”

 

“Is that a problem?”

  
“Yes, and let us not mention this to Cassandra for now.” She fished a piece of paper out of the pile and turned it toward him. At the top was a heading in red –  _ The Chapel _ – followed by a long list of names. “But so were fourteen other people.”


	12. Before - Six

The euphoria was spreading, contagious, and they were greeted at Haven by open casks, playing music and a great cheer that filled the snowy air. Their friends swamped Seamus, hands were shaken, shoulders clapped.

 

Cassandra didn't stay for the celebrations, instead she retreated to the Chantry. There she knelt before the altar and breathed deeply, brought to a holy reverie by the events she had witnessed. An energy had swelled in the air when Seamus raised his hand to the breach, like the veil itself was engorged with the magic. When it all burst the sight was divine, profound. Cassandra knew she had witnessed a scene that would be painted a hundred times to hang in every palace and keep in Thedas.

 

The great door opened behind her, the creak of hinges echoing around the tiled space. She didn't rise, expecting it to be Seamus, who would seek her out wherever she went. They had talked about space, but it wasn't him who needed it.

 

The weight of another person made the closest pew creak and she looked up.

 

“One night of peace, then,” Leliana said. “You should be out celebrating. Prayer is for the morning.”

 

“They don't need my help to celebrate,” Cassandra said. The scene ran behind her eyes, again and again. Always focused on him. Strong in more than just body. He looked right at the head of them, bracing himself to pull the sky back together. Andraste’s herald, Her chosen. 

 

“Maybe not, but having the left and right hands of the divine at his side would help Seamus.”

 

Cassandra scoffed. “He doesn't need us tonight. Those people love him.”

 

He had won their loyalty tonight, if he hadn't before. The Herald of Andraste, a bright and beautiful saviour. It was time to admit that he had won her loyalty as well. She had done her due diligence, given him what encouragement and guidance she could. It was time to let go. Seamus Trevelyan was their hero, for better or worse, Andraste had touched him and no one else. Pride was an insidious sin, one she would not fall victim to in this. It was an honour and a blessing to serve Her plans.

 

“Just them?”

 

Heat rose in her face. Leliana couldn't be saying such a thing. “I don't take your meaning.”

  
  


Leliana paused, the spectre of confusion flitting over her face before being replaced with something like epiphany. “I mean to say that our soldiers need to see that we admire him. It gives him legitimacy. Our support turns this from a rogue mage doing something amazing into a divine miracle. ”

 

She laughed at the turnabout. She had expected to be the one pressing for more momentum after the breach was closed. Things had changed. She wasn't anxious, she was calm. She had faith things would proceed as they were meant to. “Take a night, Leliana. It's done. Be at prayer, drink wine, mope on your own. This is his victory, we can't carry his leadership on our shoulders forever.”

 

“When did you become so relaxed?”

 

“When did you become so worried?” Cassandra gave up on her prayers, rising to her feet and taking the seat next to Leliana. She stretched out her legs. She was relaxed, for the first time since the Conclave, since months before the Conclave.

 

“My vigilance had not wavered,” Leliana said.

 

“Nor has mine. I have just... come to accept things as they are. I don't know what Most Holy would make of all this, but if she disapproves we are well beyond going back.”

 

Leliana looked to the ceiling, eyes glassy, lips parted, a look Cassandra had worn more than once since Most Holy's death. The grief ran deep. The fear that they wouldn't live up to her legacy. The question of what she would have done in their place hung over every word, every deed.

 

Leliana shook her head. “We couldn't have asked for a better figurehead. He's handsome and faithful, sincere to the point of naivety. But now I ask myself – is he chosen by Andraste?”

 

“Yes. I choose to believe that's the case. In truth if we were left to our own devices things would have gone differently and I don't believe they would have been better. We have to trust the Maker's hand in this.”

 

“You're right, you usually are. But my point stands, we should be seen with him tonight. This could be the victory that forges the Inquisition, if we play it right.”

 

Cassandra clasped her hands. She wanted to go out to him, but her wants weren't leading her in the right direction lately. “I think it's time for us to step back.”

  
  


“Maybe as his guides, but he still needs advisers, supporters,” Leliana said. “And on a less philosophical note, he was looking for you.”

 

Cassandra stayed in place, not wanting to give Leliana the satisfaction of seeing her rush to answer Seamus’ summons. She would not admit her heart leapt at the thought, that she still wanted him to need her as his shadow. It was easier for everyone to think that she had imposed her presence on him, keeping him in check and keeping eyes on him for their council. If he wanted her beside him it complicated things. 

 

Leliana sat silently, waiting. Cassandra didn’t move, insistent. The air hung heavy between them. She couldn't go back to prayer, and their conversation was over. Eventually she had to concede unless she found some clever workaround.

 

At least Leliana had the good grace not to look too smug when Cassandra rose, heading to the door. If Seamus was looking for her she would comply.

 

Cassandra blanched, surprised. She thought she would have to go hunting for him, but he was bent over the railing of the Chantry, watching his people in their revelry. The night air was frozen, bracing and refreshing. A thin shower of snowflakes settled in the air over the town, framing Seamus in black and blue and white. 

 

When she looked at him something had shifted in her mind. The Herald of Andraste. The green of breach and mark, Seamus' red hair blowing back from the force. Now soft, gentled by downy snow, but unchanged in the ways that mattered. The general who led his army, dozens of hooded figures. Now alone, but still somehow larger, more commanding in her eyes.

 

He didn't notice her until she was beside him. He straightened, face lighting up. “Seeker Pentaghast.”

 

“Lord Trevelyan. Shouldn't you be celebrating?”

 

“I will. I just wanted to see you. I didn't notice you up there.” He gestured to mountains where the breach had been.

 

She leaned her hip against the railing, crossing her arms. “This is your victory. You deserve the chance to enjoy it without your chaperones.”

 

She met his eyes and and felt her mouth go dry. There was something in his gentle face, the furrow of his brow, his parted lips, that she hadn't seen before. Intent. The gravity of the night was still ingrained in his face, his posture. The stalwart leader who commanded the skies, the veil itself.

 

It might have been easier to process if it was accompanied by his boyish smile, his humour. That was not the look she was reading from him. He was working up the courage for something.

 

He leaned a little closer to her, reaching out with one gloved hand to touch her elbow, anchoring her in the moment with him. The touch sent a spark of something through her and she felt she could feel the warmth of his skin even through layers of cloth and leather.

 

“Cassandra, I...”

 

He was cut off by the screech of a dragon, and the night turned to fire and steel.


	13. After - Seven

“I leave you alone for one night. One night.”

 

“Yes, you really should have known better.”

 

Hawke and Isabela stood, twin statues with arms crossed, leaning against the wall outside the dungeons. Varric tried not to pace. He wasn't a pacer. Things were just tense and tension in the air didn't sit well with his nerves. He didn't like the way people had started parcelling off, standing in groups of three or four, eyeing each other suspiciously.

 

The gang was back together by the throne, the Inquisitor's former war council turned investigators. One little gang. The Revered Mothers that followed Leliana around like ducklings. Another gang. And here he was with Hawke and Isabela, looking at them, wondering about them. Sure they were keeping this whole 'wedding' vibe going for the most part, but there were plenty of people around just mad and scared enough to do something stupid.

 

“You never blackout drunk,” Hawke said. “The one night you need an alibi you can't even remember where you were.”

 

“I sometimes blackout drunk. It's a wedding, dear! I was celebrating the two good little Andrastians finally playing nug-a-nug. Did you see the look of them? They definitely haven't.”

 

“You don't think? How could they not? I'd take either.”

 

“Well, of course you would, you're not blind.”

 

Varric huffed out a breath. “Are you two fighting or is this foreplay?”

 

Isabela grinned. “Bit of both.”

 

The Revered Mothers were watching them, whispering. Conspiring or maybe thinking they were conspiring. He didn't like this. It reminded him too much of Kirkwall right before everything went to shit. Paranoid fear of a thing was worse than the thing itself given the right conditions, and the chantry bigwigs could cause an awful lot of trouble.

 

“Well I think we can all agree this is Varric's fault,” Hawke said, looking like some kind of huntress towering three feet above him.

 

“What did I do?”

 

“Invited a pirate crew to have dinner with the Herald of Andraste, the Divine, a whole lot of other toffs.”

 

“I invited  _ you _ , Hawke. No offence, Isabela. No, I take that back. A lot of offence. As much as you can imagine right now.”

 

Isabela tipped an imaginary cap. “None taken.”

 

“I promise I will be more sparing in my invitations in the future.”

 

Hawke looked toward the dungeon door like she could see through it. “Well, we'll have time enough to blame Varric once we know Timmy Two-Shoes is safe.”

 

“That's not his name,” Isabela said.

 

“Eh, don't worry about him,” Varric said. “The Seeker had me for months and she never touched a hair on my pretty head. She'll scare some sense into the boy, though. What was he doing up here anyway?”

 

“I don't know, I'm his captain, not his mother.”

 

Hawke grinned, “Maybe having a torrid affair with one of the nobles. She just couldn't resist a man so salt.”

 

“If he wasn't having an affair he'd be the only one. These people have put me off writing romance for life.” Varric had heard the excuse or discovered the story a dozen times today alone. He had been mentally matching up every one of their guests with who they were tumbling when the Inquisitor fell. Revered Mother Beatrix? Definitely with Mother Sophia. He grinned. “You know who loves my Sword and Shield serial?”

 

The door to the dungeon lurched open and Varric felt all the humour fall away from him like he'd just dropped a bag of apples. It was sudden, he saw the blood before he recognised what was going on.

 

Cassandra half-dragged, half-tossed the pirate kid to the ground in front of her, his eyes swollen shut, mouth bloodied, body limp. The great hall fell silent, the others rushing to the boy's side but too afraid to touch, to get between the Seeker and her prey. Isabela was the only one brave enough, falling to her knees beside her crewman. She cradled his head in her hands, ginger, afraid to do more harm with her touch.

 

He should have had something witty to say, something cutting, anything to make her see what she looked like in this moment. All that came out was a breath, “Seeker, what did you do?”

 

Cassandra took the length of her tabard in one hand and began wiping the blood off spiked gauntlets. “Tell them what you told me.”

 

The boy struggled to rise, to look around him. He was breathing in shallow gasps. “She... she...”

 

Cullen stepped forward, his face dark. “Cassandra, this is too far, even now.”

 

“Tell them,” Cassandra repeated.

 

The boy wheezed. “She wanted to buy... she wanted the essence. I found the stash... she asked me...”

 

“Cassandra...” Leliana was the next to try to intervene.

 

“Said she'd... bless me...”

 

Oh. Oh, shit. The kid was looking right at Mother Sophia through his swollen eyes, and Mother Sophia had gone three shades too pale. Well at least someone wasn't having an affair.

 

Leliana's rage was silent, building as she turned on her escort.

 

All eyes fell to them. The essence. Essence of laurel, Varric guessed. A sedative for mages, something very different for anyone without magic.

 

“Most Holy, please,” one of the three tried.

 

“And you two knew,” Leliana said, voice deadly quiet.

 

“We could not let her be accused of such a thing, not murder, not...”

 

“Not what she was actually doing,” Leliana finished. “No, we couldn't have that. Get out of my sight, I will decide what to do with you when we return to Val Royeaux. For now meditate on the fact that you have wasted precious time while a murderer is at large.”

 

The three Mothers looked like scolded five-year-olds. They knew their public lives were over. To offend the Divine was political suicide, to enrage her was something else. They scurried from the hall, no doubt rethinking their life choices. Leliana's face stayed dark, but attention turned to Timmy Two-Shoes or whatever his name was.

 

“What did she mean,” Hawke rasped, “by murderer? You said the Inquisitor was wounded, Varric.”

 

“He is.” Words failed him. He didn't need Leliana blowing his lies at a time like this. “It's not a murder.”  _ Not yet. _

 

Cassandra strode past them, still wiping the blood from her hands.

 

“Seeker.” He followed.

 

She didn't stop.

 

“Seeker.”

 

He walked three paces behind her, trying to keep up.

 

“ _ Cassandra _ .” He slammed his open palm against the door to Seamus' quarters before she could escape.

 

“I don't care, Varric. Save your lecture.”

 

They had never been on the best of terms, but he knew they were closer than they had been. Maybe he could even convince himself that they were friends. Whatever they were he'd seen her high, in their victories against Corypheus and his armies, and low, after the death of Justinia and their many near misses, but he'd never heard that dead voice, seen those dead eyes.

 

“He's going to wake up, Seeker,” he said. “And then you're going to have to live with what you've done. And so will he.”

 

She looked down at him and a chill ran down his spine. The Inquisitor was going to die. She didn't care what he thought about any of this.

 

“The least of my problems,” she said and then she was through the door and it slammed in his face.

 


	14. Before - Seven

Varric had a bloodied nose, but she wasn't apologising for it.

 

He and Solas had all but sacrificed Seamus to save their own skin. When the dragon touched down they had left him alone to fight against an archdemon and some twisted magister while they escaped from Haven, dragging Cassandra along.

 

If it all ended here she would blame them. At least they could have died fighting, not hunted through the snow.

 

She kept moving, keeping warm. If the Maker was on their side they might save some civilians. It didn't seem likely. They had no destination aside from keeping away from the army that had all but ambushed them. The snow was deep, their resources scarce, the shadow of death hung over them.

 

If he had died she didn't know what she would do. Everyone had seen Haven buried in snow, the last desperate action of a cornered man. He couldn't have survived it without divine intervention. A laugh bubbled in her throat at the thought. If there was one man alive for whom that might be true, it was him.

 

It felt like more than despair, it felt like punishment.

 

Andraste had lent her hand to his first escape, appearing before a dozen witnesses. He had appeared in their lives, beautiful and beneficent, reminding them how to stand up for what was right. And she had the pride, the cynicism to question it.

 

The thought of how often and how harshly she had shut him out made her squirm with shame.

 

_ Please _ , her mantra as she waded through the snow, one of many ranging parties breaking off from their camps to look for him.  _ Please, let him live. _

 

The frost bit deep, snow up to her knees and no clothing could protect against it. She hadn't felt her nose or ears in a day, her extremities bright pink and threatening frostbite. Even to breathe was to invite biting cold air inside her, but she continued.

 

_ Please. I'll never be suspicious of him again. I'll never be cold. Just let him live. _

 

It was all ridiculous, the idea that she'd find him and bring him to the safety of their displaced, snowbound campsite so that he might hike into nothing with them. But the idea that his smile, his eyes, his warmth were snuffed out forever was unbearable. It couldn't be true.

 

So she ranged. They met back at camp, they argued, they marched forward, Varric gave her filthy looks, and she ranged out again with their soldiers. If he was dead it was only a matter of time for the rest of them.

 

_ Please. _

 

It was two days before she heard the call. An unfamiliar voice too far away from her. They had found him.

 

Pushing through the snow was like a finger trap, the harder she struggled the slower the going. The run she had broken into on instinct was pointless. She had to breathe, to think.

 

Breathe, think, press forward,  _ please. _ Frozen water soaked through her leggings. He could be all but dead. He could have been injured in his fight. She had promised the Maker she would not be cold. Breathe, think. One more step and then another.

 

They were taking him back to camp. She took the easy way, stepping back along her already worn path. They needed help carrying him. She couldn't get to them.

 

Breathe, think.

 

She retraced her own steps and when she hit the plateau where they had made their camp it was like breathing again after drowning. She ran. He was limp in the arms of the scouts.

 

A dozen other people rushed to him. Healers and friends. Too many for her to fight through. She caught only glimpses of his blue lips, his blackened fingertips on one hand and beating green heart on the other. The Maker had answered her prayer, accepted her bargain. She wouldn't be cynical again.

 

She stood alone, gasping snowy air into herself until the crowd subsided. The cold froze her while the healers did their work, kept her in place, watching his face. He was unaware, calm, alive. She watched. The healers worked.

 

It must have been hours before they left him, but she couldn't tell. No one approached her, tried to sway her.

 

She took off her gloves, their spiked knuckles leaving bright white marks in her palms. She knelt beside him, taking his huge hand in her own, sharing what warmth she had left.

 

She could see the look in his eyes the moment before the attack, full of a promise that had terrified her. It had hurt her in ways she couldn't describe, jabbed at sore points she hadn't fully catalogued. Now she just wanted the chance to open those old wounds, the possibility of breaking and resetting warped bones. She wanted his smiles, his jokes, his strength and his sermons.

 

She cradled his one big hand between her two, willing the last of her body heat to warm him. His lips were still blue.

 

The contact might have brought some feeling back to him, but for her it was like walking out of the fog. Her heart slowed back to normal rhythm, the tingling of her skin turned painful where the icy water touched, her eyes grew heavy and her legs ached.

 

Leaning back against the pallet he lay on, she let her eyes drift closed, the frantic energy that had kept her awake seeping out of her.

 

The cold, dead weight in her hands twitched and she looked up. He cracked his eyes open, barely moving. A ghost of a smile drifted over his face.

 

“Hey,” he murmured.

 

“Are you alright? What am I saying? Of course you’re not.” She paused. “You scared us.”

 

He mumbled something through blue lips, unintelligible, and drifted off again. His hand wrapped around one of hers. No longer was she pressing flat palms against his skin to warm it, but their hands were curled together. 

 

Sleeping sitting up on the ground wasn't restful, it did nothing to ease her aching muscles or bring feeling back to her toes, but even through the haze she could feel his hand in hers. The chill was still painful, but the despair was gone. They had their Herald back. Everything else was details. They could find a destination, reinvigorate their cause, fight and win.

 

The fade claimed her for long enough that when a hand gently shook her awake her mind was clear and unhindered. She blinked at her surroundings, taking a moment to reorient herself. Mother Giselle stood above her, giving her a sympathetic look that she did not care for at all.

 

Cassandra uncurled herself, releasing Seamus' hand and organising herself to her feet. “Mother Giselle, I...”

 

“There is no cause for alarm, Seeker. The others are discussing important matters and I thought you would want to join them.”

 

Cassandra didn't look down at the Herald, purposefully keeping her eyes forward, but she was aware of him. There would be panic if his condition degraded, Mother Giselle's calm was an indicant of health and well-being.

 

“I will join them, then. Thank you, your Reverence.” She turned to go, but hesitated.

 

“Do not worry, child. I will stay with him,” Mother Giselle said. That same look, part amusement but the greater part sympathy.

 

Cassandra swallowed her pride and allowed herself to look at him. She could not be cold when it came to him, she had made a faithful promise, a covenant. The colour was back in his face, he was uninjured, his one hand still stretched out as if searching for her warmth. All was well. Andraste had guided him back.

 

She nodded to Mother Giselle. “Thank you.”

 

It was hard to turn her back on him, but with the strength of a few hours sleep and the knowledge he had returned to her side she had the energy to argue for their cause. She sought out the others and headed back into the snow.

 


	15. After - Eight

Leliana had endured some difficult days in her life, but this one was testing even her patience.

 

Her friend's life hung in the balance, the Chantry's political future became more uncertain by the hour, her own council had revealed themselves for fools and a murderer walked among them undetected.

 

She had abandoned her habit. She couldn't keep investigating this as the Most Holy, she needed eyes off her if only for a short time. Her old dark surcoat did her well, the hood hid her hair well enough. Those who knew her would recognise her, but not the rank and file. Even if she was spotted a breach in protocol was not her main concern.

 

The sun was low in the sky when she found her way to Theodora's quarters. The Warden Commander hadn't been seen since the morning, secluding herself as she always did. She would have some book on darkspawn or blood magic, more use for new strategies than social pleasantries.

 

What she didn't expect was to see Morrigan leaving the guest room just as she approached. The witch took a second look at her, an amused smirk dawning on her face.

 

“Your Perfection. Or is it Leliana at the minute?”

 

“Morrigan. I'm surprised you know how the Divine is styled.”

 

Morrigan was in her courtly Orlesian dress, maroon scraps traded out for dark velvet. She smoothed her skirt like it was second nature. “As you have seen I am much more a political animal than when we first met. Is it my turn to face the interrogator or are you here for Theodora?”

 

“I'm here to see Theodora, although I have some questions for you as well. It isn't like you to attend a wedding.” Leliana did not like Morrigan. There was no particular event or memory she attached to it, just a difference of attitude she was sure would create one. It didn't matter, she hadn’t liked her during the Blight and she didn't have to like her now.

 

“As I've said, times have changed. If it soothes you, I was asked to attend by the Grand Enchantress as well as the Inquisitor. It was she who held my attention the night in question.”

 

“Where were you?”

 

“The library.”

 

“Why did she want to talk to you?”

 

“I'm sure it's none of your business. This is the Inquisition's home and you have a right to question my whereabouts in it, but none to peer into my private conversations.”

 

A twinge of nostalgic sympathy set Leliana's teeth on edge. “If you tell me it may exonerate you. I would rather not see you accused.”

 

“And if I do not tell you, your Seeker may beat it out of me? A fine little game you are playing, but I will not be participating.”

 

“Have it your way.” Leliana pushed past her, opening Theodora's door without knocking and shutting it firmly behind her. If she let Morrigan get the better of her temper, Cassandra would be fighting a dragon in the yard in no time. She had to keep the peace.

 

Theodora said nothing at her sudden entrance, only looking at her, one eyebrow raised. As predicted, she sat sideways in her chair, a giant tome propped between her legs. Her hair was still perfectly braided, like black silk, and not a hair out of place. It was a wonder how she accomplished it in the morning, let alone how she kept it that way through the day.

 

Leliana sighed.

 

“I saw Morrigan,” she offered by way of explanation for her rude entrance.

 

“Ah.”

 

“We haven't had a chance to catch up.”

 

Theodora picked up a teacup from the table beside her, smelled the steam, took a long sip and placed the cup back. “I didn't attack the Inquisitor.”

 

There was an accusation hidden in her words. Leliana sighed. “I had meant to talk to you today, anyway. You'll have to excuse me that the circumstances changed.”

 

“How long has it been? Can it really have been since the Blight?”

 

“No.” Leliana took a seat without being asked. Theodora would never ask. “Remember Amaranthine Harbour about seven years ago?”

 

“Mm.”

 

It had been a chance meeting, on the streets as she went from Denerim to Kirkwall. Theodora had recognised her, but they had barely spoken. She had once been as loyal to this woman as she was to the Chantry and she hadn't had anything to say to her. It was like the taint had seeped into her bones, leached out everything over the years.

 

“What are you doing here, Theodora?” Leliana asked, tired at the very thought of trying to reconnect. “Your last public appearance was Alistair's coronation, and suddenly you accept an invitation to a wedding?”

 

“You think I came to assassinate the Inquisitor.” Theodora quirked an eyebrow, seeming more amused than offended by the possibility. A gossip, not a defendant. 

 

“Of course I don't, but you must see how it looks. He banished the Grey Wardens from Orlais. You must be furious.”

 

Another long sip of tea. “Why?”

 

Leliana frowned. “Don't pretend with me, we've not drifted so far apart that I'll mistake you for stupid. Grey Wardens need a presence everywhere in case of a Blight. Last time they were expelled you were the one who suffered for it.”

 

“True enough, I suppose. But assassination is political, and I am not.”

 

“Did you know Clarel?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And did you know her plan?”

 

Theodora raised an eyebrow again. “We'd discussed it in the past.”

 

“So you knew. You knew what she was planning all along, the Wardens were ripe for Erimond's influence.”

 

“We discussed a lot of things, Leliana.”

 

This was a pointless discussion. Morality always sat in a strange way with the Wardens, demanded different standards. She was standing before a blood mage, a friend. Now was not the time to cry corruption. She was fishing for something that she wasn't going to get – her old friend who would have intuited where it hurt and soothed it.

 

“What are you doing here?” Leliana asked.

 

Theodora closed her book and swung her legs down from the chair arm. She leaned forward, hands clasped, hawkish face interested. “I came to see you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“It's not every day the Divine, the King of Ferelden and Morrigan are all sat down at a table together. Even Cullen is here. If it makes you feel better I am bitterly regretting my nostalgia now.”

 

“Why not before? You could have written. You could have said something instead of just disappearing.”

 

“I never disappeared. I was at Amaranthine.”

 

Leliana could have yelled at her, balled her fists in frustration or even hit her. “You were my hero and you wanted nothing to do with me.”

 

“I don't know what you want from this conversation.”

 

Leliana stood up, “I want my friend back.”

 

“I'm right here.”

 

“You haven't been here since the Archdemon. I thought it was just heartbreak when Alistair left you, but it was more, wasn't it? It changed something.”

 

A flicker of anger cross her face. At least it was something.

 

“I was  _ alone _ , Leliana. When the Inquisitor was attacked. Time will have to clear my name because nothing else will.” They stared at each other, the air heavy between them. Theodora softened. “Come now, dear. I came to spend time with you, we should take what we can get. Sit with me, tell me about your life now.”

 

She could have stormed out, it would probably be easier on her, all things considered. But she didn't. She sat, and Theodora poured her a cup of tea, and her eyes lingered on the pristine warden blue coat, brand new except for the two buttons which had been torn off, as if in a struggle.

  
  



	16. Before - Eight

For faith, for Andraste, for Thedas.

 

It all settled into place, as Cassandra was beginning to trust it would. The Inquisitor had been named, the Inquisition's creed declared. All her fears settled, just as she’d prayed they would. Everything was clear.

 

A strange sort of luck, she remembered herself saying. The perfect Inquisitor, a pure faith, the magnificent Skyhold. If they hadn't been using it to combat an impostor god she might have thought her luck too good to be real.

 

The reconstruction of the keep was a major project and their rank and file were too thin to leave it all to them. Everyone had their share of work to do. She had seen her own quarters but hadn't yet taken the time to pull sheets off the furniture and clear away debris. A hundred little things. They piled up quickly.

 

She made her way up the stairs to the highest tower. The flap of fabric being shaken out echoed in the stairwell. Even the Inquisitor wasn't spared housework today. She found him folding dusty sheets from the furniture. The loft was far grander than any other quarters. The furniture was what she had come to expect here, old but serviceable.

 

The hard floor didn't give away her entry, giving her a chance to observe him. Her promises and revelations had made working with him easier. Almost second nature. They had made other things much, much harder.

 

There was an energy to him, something she couldn't put her finger on. He lit up the room like sunlight. It made her gut tighten and her breath short. Made her linger on the small details like the corner of his mouth, the stubble on his jaw, the calluses on his fingertips. She refused herself a defensive reaction to the thought. She would not be cold.

 

When he saw her his smile was radiant,  sheet still draped between both hands. “Seeker Pentaghast.”

 

A shiver ran up her spine. “Lord Inquisitor.”

 

His smile somehow brightened a few degrees. “Given my recent luck, I'm surprised you're letting me stay in such a high-up room.”

 

“I'll revoke the privilege if you manage to fall off the balcony.”

 

“It's worth falling off. Join me?” He dropped the sheet to the bed and gestured to the open doors leading out.

 

Cassandra fell into step beside him and he placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her out. The moment he touched her the heat rose inside her. She might have commented on his guiding her like a dance partner, but her mind and her mouth didn't catch up quickly enough. Why did he always have to leave her so tongue-tied?

 

He was painfully close as they leaned against the railings together, hips not quite touching. And he was right, the view was breathtaking. The Frostbacks surrounded them, snowy peaks stretching into the clouds. Something a thousand painters had tried and failed to capture.

 

“It's beautiful,” she admitted.

 

“I guess the position comes with a few perks.” He turned his attention to her, ignoring the vista. “I wanted to thank you, for that.”

 

“I wasn't my decision alone. You were the obvious choice, and the vote was unanimous.”

 

“I know it wasn't just you. But your faith in me has... changed things. I couldn't have done any of this without you. I wouldn't have been worth any titles without you.”

 

“You don't give yourself enough credit.”

 

“It's the truth. You had to include me in the Inquisition, you needed the anchor to close the breach. But you listened to me, you supported me.”

 

She tore her eyes from the view, anxious to see him when he made this confession. There was such a softness to his eyes. She had to catch herself, remember her promises. All she wanted was to wave off the compliment, reject the vulnerability of this moment. It had been a long time since she had been emotionally honest. It had been a long time since she had been close enough to anyone to worry about how far she should let them in.

 

“You were worth supporting,” she settled on. “We need you for more than the anchor and I don't intend to let anyone's efforts go unseen.”

 

He nudged her shoulder. “You're warming up to me, admit it.”

 

He needed to stop touching her. Or maybe he needed to touch her a lot more. “I had my suspicions at first, but you've proven yourself. You must have felt the same, you knew none of us when we first imprisoned you. It can't have been an easy transition.”

 

Seamus shrugged. “I'm an easy prisoner. I knew you were trying to do the right thing. Being in the company of the right and left hands of the Divine, I was more overwhelmed than anything.”

 

She had to smile. It was a strange sort of fame, being right hand to the Divine. “I forget, sometimes. Attending the Divine was a poor role for glory-seekers. Most never knew my face, if they knew I existed at all. But on occasion I would meet someone who would be so overcome with religious fervour at the sight of me, I never knew how to react. I didn't take you for one of them.”

 

“Oh, you put the fear of the Maker into me,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “ _ The _ Cassandra Pentaghast? Dragon slayer, mage hunter, right hand to the Divine Justinia? I've heard all the stories. Repent to the right hand, because by the time you see the left it's already too late.”

 

Cassandra playfully shoved his shoulder. “You know that's not true.”

 

“Now I know. Back in your dungeon I thought you were about to smite me. I still think it's on the table.”

 

“You are my Inquisitor, Lord Trevelyan. It is most certainly not on the table.”

 

He sobered, eyes soft and serious again. “Lady Pentaghast, we've fought side by side for a while now.”

 

“We have.”

 

“I'd be pleased if you'd call me Seamus.”

 

Her stomach clenched. “I'll agree to that if you never call me Lady Pentaghast again.”

 

“Alright,” he smiled, “Cassandra.”

 

They had shifted, their backs to the forgotten view, shoulder to shoulder against the railing. He was looking at her with those stunning eyes and he wasn't looking away. She had to stop staring at him. Being warm without getting carried away was difficult.

 

The tip of his tongue darted out and wet those dangerous lips. “I'm glad. That there's peace between us.”

 

“As am I... Seamus.”

 

She needed to step away and take a breath. Or talk about something. Turn around. The most handsome man in Thedas was in her personal space, being his emotionally available self, and this was going to lead her to do something stupid. Her face was so hot she could only imagine that she had turned bright pink.

 

He didn't seem to mind, eyes tracing her face, their words fallen away. A lump rose in her throat and she swallowed it away. This was ridiculous. She had to move away but instead she leaned closer. Seamus leaned forward to meet her, warm breath spilling over her skin.

 

The creak of the door broke the moment, freeing her from the spell. She jumped guiltily, stepping away from him and clearing her throat.

 

“Inquisitor?” Josephine called.

 

Cassandra leaned out over the railing, hoping the cold air from the valley would take the colour from her face before Josephine could see it.

 

“Out here, Josie,” Seamus said. Josie. Cassandra had been Seeker Pentaghast until two minutes ago and Josephine was  _ Josie _ .

 

“Oh, we need to discuss...” Josephine paused. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

 

“Not at all. What do you need?”

 

Cassandra sent a silent prayer to the Maker, thanking him for stopping her before she made a fool of herself. The man was too friendly for his own good. He made everyone feel as if they were the focus of special attention.

 

“Please excuse me,” she said to Josephine. She kept her legs steady and pace unhurried, but in her mind she was running from the room.

 


	17. After - Nine

Josephine didn't enjoy the duty she had been given. It was better to keep busy, coordinating the records and testimony of their hundreds of witnesses, it kept her mind off what was happening upstairs. But the mage's deadline had come and someone had to accept his report.

 

Seamus' quarters were dark, only a few candles keeping his vigil. Cassandra sat in her chair, hands in hand with her betrothed, asleep. Her sleeves were still stained with the blood of the young pirate she had interrogated. Josephine couldn't imagine her devastation. She wouldn't be right until this was decided, one way or another.

 

The mage who had initially attended Seamus sat against the wall, an older man with milky eyes and calloused hands. Josephine took up a seat next to him, giving the couple their privacy.

 

“Ambassador Montilyet,” he said. “I suppose I promised you a diagnosis.”

 

“If you are ready to give it, ser mage.”

 

“It's difficult to say anything with certainty.” He blew out a long breath, brow furrowed, as if calculating in his head. “The essence is the first stage of tranquillity, meant to make a mage's talents difficult to wield, slow his heart, make his emotions malleable. When the Inquisitor's natural magic was disrupted by the sudden absence of the anchor a little of the stuff eased the process of rejuvenation. That gentle separation protected his body from the surges.”

 

“Are you saying that by too much he has been made tranquil?”

 

“No, if that were possible we wouldn't need the rite. But to wake up he will need to overcome the essence slowing his heart and his body is in too much shock from the loss of magic. He may not be strong enough.”

 

Josephine swallowed thickly. “So there is no chance.”

 

“He will wake or die in the next three days. I can attend him, but the bulk of the work is up to him now.”

 

“Thank you, ser. I will inform the council.”

 

The news was as good as they could hope for, at this point. Either they would have him back or it would be over quickly. She hovered by the bed before leaving. Best to let Cassandra sleep, the next day would be trying enough without adding exhaustion to her troubles.

 

Josephine brushed the hair from Seamus' eyes. He was as lovely as ever. It would be too cruel for the Maker to take him now. He had brought nothing but light and hope into her life, into everyone's lives. They had spent nights beyond counting in this room, indulging in silly gossip while they worked and eventually conversation turned personal. He had confided his many hidden fears in her – that Corypheus was too strong, that the Inquisition grew beyond his control, and of course that Cassandra would never return his affections. The last of those fears had been easy to laugh off.

 

“We'll take care of her,” Josephine whispered. “Just worry about getting better.”

 

None of this was right. They needed answers and had nothing but questions.

 

Seamus needed them to take care of his lady and his Inquisition while he was asleep. She took the great staircase down to the hall and found a servant, instructing her to make sure Cassandra had food and water when she woke. Seamus would never forgive them if they let her fall apart while he slept. Taking care of the Inquisition would be more challenging. Regardless of objections she would have to start moving people out soon. Most people were happy to be caught up in any kind of excitement but soon enough their good mood would fade.

 

The war room was not nearly as chaotic as the previous evening, only Cullen and Leliana remained mulling over their papers. The others had been sent away, to sleep, to investigate, whatever took their fancy, but not here.

 

Cullen looked up as she entered. “What's the news?”

 

“He's fighting. We'll know in three days, one way or the other.” She took up a seat, bodily exhausted by the news. “Is there any progress?”

 

Her scribes had prepared and updated lists but she hadn't seen the latest lists in an hour. The number of papers were shrinking but names were no longer in isolation, now covered in notes and conjecture.

 

“Some,” Leliana said, pushing a copy toward her. “Cassandra's handling of the pirate boy led a number of people to admit they were not praying. Only four people still claim to have been there. One may be telling the truth.”

 

“Have we managed to eliminate any of the important suspects?”

 

“Morrigan claims to have been with Grand Enchanter Fiona. I haven't spoken to Fiona yet, and they may be covering for each other, but it's possible she has a good explanation.”

 

“Are there any problems with their story?”

 

Cullen grimaced. “Arl Teagan also says he was in the library. He didn't see them, they didn't see him. It's not that large a library.”

 

“And King Alistair?”

 

“Lying,” Cullen said. “Through his teeth. It doesn't mean he's guilty, but it's not helping his case.”

 

Leliana nodded. “The same goes for Theodora.”

 

Josephine let out a heavy sigh. “Those we don't care about are dropping like flies from the list, and the ones we pray will be innocent stay. We have to start talking about extradition processes. Almost everyone can be referred to their own territory for justice.”

 

“Cassandra won't like that.”

 

“I doubt anyone would try to claim the perpetrator, but obtaining permission before punishing the guilty party at Skyhold would prevent further unpleasantness.”

 

“And if it's a king?” Cullen asked.

 

“It's not,” said Leliana. “I don't care what he's trying to hide, it isn't murder.”

 

The word seemed to suck the air from the room. They had all been avoiding it, referring only to the Inquisitor's 'injury', the 'attack' committed by the 'assailant'. Any minute it could turn to murder and their euphemisms would carry them no further.

 

Cullen cleared his throat. “Are we really dismissing Isabela out of hand? I know that Hawke has been our ally in the past, but she has strange taste in lovers.”

 

“I don't know her that well,” Leliana said. “But it seems too big for her. Everyday piracy and assassination aren't as similar as they might seem. The best Antivan Crows would be recruited for such a task, not just a random criminal.”

 

“Be that as it may, a pirate who can walk in here invited may have been a more practical option than an assassin who has to scale Skyhold.”

 

Josephine checked her list and the red scrawls underneath. “She says she was drinking heavily and cannot remember the night. It seems... credible. You have had some dealings with her in the past, Commander. Does she have any history of such delicate operations?”

 

“Not that I know of, but she wasn't exactly the centre of my attention at the time. I know she's not stupid.”

 

“So that's our theory, then?” Leliana asked. “Someone offered her a pile of gold, told her to kill quietly and she is lying about the memory loss?”

 

The three of them exchanged looks. It wasn't an ideal place to start. Many had better motive and a less plausible alibi. Isabela just had the poor luck of being the only one on their list who didn't come with a personal reference from one of their council.

 

“It's a soft place to start,” said Josephine. “If we question her more gently than Cassandra would. Upsetting Hawke is a risk we can bear. It won't earn the Inquisition any favours but it won't start a war.”

 

Cullen nodded, a weight seeming to lift from his shoulders. “Let's get one person off our stubborn list. One by one and we'll get through them.”

 

“And we may find our culprit before we reach the king,” Josephine finished for him. “Who will be the one to..?”

 

Leliana was the obvious choice, but it was one thing for the Divine to dress in civilian clothing and talk to her old friends, quite another to actively interrogate. Cullen was not an unintelligent man but had little understanding of guile. Josephine herself projected no air threatening enough to provoke answers to difficult questions. She could try a more tactful, wheedling method, but conditions were less than ideal.

 

“We'll have to call on someone else,” Leliana relented. “If we intend to be friendly first, I dare say Varric could get her talking.”

 

Josephine smiled, a defensive reaction whenever she tried to put a civilised shine on an unattractive prospect. “And what could be less offensive? I will arrange it at once.”

 

“And, Josie.” Leliana had a dark shadow in her eye. The look of a spymaster with a hunch. “Have Dorian talk to Fiona. They might bond over their encounter with Alexius.”

 

Josephine bowed slightly. “As you say, Your Perfection.”

 

She left the room, fingers tight about her quill, renewed with a fresh burst of activity. She would only stay sane as long as she stayed busy.

  
  
  



	18. Before - Nine

On occasion, Cassandra would admit, she failed to be introspective. On occasion something would happen in her life and she would only see the wound it left long after it had passed. And when reminded, she occasionally acted inappropriately.

 

“You conniving little shit!” She took a swing at Varric, not expecting it to connect, but praying it would. She was going to kill him. Or at least break his nose. “You knew where Hawke was all along!”

 

“You kidnapped me, you interrogated me!” he shouted back. “What did you expect?”

 

He had lied to her. Sat there and spun his tales and told of adventure and romance and moral disorder and lied and lied and lied. While she had scrambled to find some possible way to end the war he had spent his time distracting and prevaricating. She would make him pay.

 

The evening was cold, the lights inside bright, shadows dancing in and out of her vision as she lunged for him again. She could see Seamus coming up the stairs, see him hesitate before he intervened.

 

Her dream of breaking the little shit's nose was thwarted when Seamus stepped between them, shielding Varric with his body.

 

“Hey! Enough!”

 

“You're taking his side?” Her voice rose too far in the heat of it.

 

“I said _enough_!”

 

The air around them stilled. The roar, unmistakably directed at her, stopped everything in its tracks. She had never heard such a tone in his voice before, and certainly hadn't expected to be the target of his rebuke, no matter how she behaved.

 

It should have made her more angry. To be scolded like a child by a man she admired, the mortification ought to have been unbearable. But his total control over them at that moment, the sharp, animal tone of his voice did not enrage her. Instead it heated her, a different kind of fight rising in her gut. A fight of hands on wrists, of power, of dominance. It stopped her short.

 

Varric chuckled through his own sneer, his eyes fixed on her. “Watch out, Inquisitor. Get her any more hot and bothered and it won't be me she's lunging at.”

 

The heat leapt to her face. She was struck speechless, humiliated in an instant. As though it wasn't already so painfully obvious how she felt about him, as though she didn't already live wondering how many eyes fell on her in pity or laughter. She threw her gaze to the ceiling, refusing to look at either of them. If there was one person in this castle not to laugh at her about this, please let it be him.

 

“Varric,” Seamus continued in his new, dangerous purr. “You are quickly losing the moral high ground.”

 

“She attacked me!”

 

“Get out of here. We'll talk later.”

 

Cassandra snapped herself back to her senses, meeting Seamus' eyes and refusing to look away, daring him to say something. She would not be brought low by that cretin, no matter what dirty tricks he employed.

 

Varric left, a distant shape walking down the stairs, while she held Seamus' intense gaze. Was he laughing at her? No. He was too serious. Varric hadn't fazed him, hadn't put a single dent in that perfect, implacable exterior. In that moment she couldn't bear it. Not his strength, his constance, his insight. She couldn't bear him.

 

“Tell me about it,” he said, gentle, kind, understanding.

 

Something burst inside her and she struck his chest with both hands, pushing him away with all her might. “You wouldn't _know_.”

 

He stumbled back, catching himself against the table. His eyes didn't leave hers. He showed no flicker of anger or fear.

 

“Then tell me,” he said.

 

She caught her hands, crushed them into fists. She had just hit the Inquisitor. She had just hit Seamus. The feeling was vile, welling up from her stomach like vomit. Why wasn't he angry at her? It only inflamed her temper further. Someone or something had to be the target of her rage, or maybe she would just scream it into the night. It wouldn't bear festering like this.

 

Before she could react he was in her space, taking her balled up fists into his hands. He worked her stiff form, encouraging her hand until she let him raise it to his face and press a kiss against her armour-clad fingers.

 

“Cassandra,” he said. “I'm begging you to talk to me.”

 

“He could have saved her.” The words burst from her mouth, the pressure inside of her overwhelming her and spilling out in stupid words. “I wanted... I wanted Hawke, for the Inquisition. To lead the Inquisition. If she had been there, at the Conclave...”

 

Seamus said nothing, holding her hands tightly. Was he preventing another attack? She didn't think so. But how could he possibly understand all of this? How could she ever articulate her hopes, her foolish dreams of Hawke, fresh from arbitrating a mage rebellion and empowered with the Chantry forces enforcing a peace they hadn't known in years?

 

When she pictured the huntress she had seen on the battlements – curls blowing in the wind, longbow at the ready – standing at Justinia's side during the Conclave she couldn't picture anything bad happening. Hawke had been fighting the most terrible magics for a decade. She would have fought against it.

 

“She might have saved Justinia,” Cassandra finally said, her voice breaking.

 

Seamus pulled her forward by her wrists and wrapped his arms around her.

 

She choked on the gesture, on the action. He was so warm, so big, one giant hand rubbing her lower back. She had a faceful of his red hair, the smell and feel of him. She didn't know what to do.

 

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I'm so sorry you lost her.”

 

A shudder overtook her and she curled into him. She wanted to be angry, mortified, but the build to those high emotions was like a wave that refused to crest. When she reached for it his body blocked her.

 

Justinia had been the last to hug her, maybe the last for twenty years. She had been her last, her only, source of comfort in her often callous work. She had friends. She had Cullen who would follow her into the breach. She had Leliana who respected her every word. She had Vivienne to admire, Dorian to read bad novels with, even the Bull or Sera to play cards with. But it had been an age since anyone had held her in their arms, tried to comfort her. Tried to understand her.

 

She clutched Seamus by the ribs, burying her face in his neck. “He could have saved her.”

 

“Hey.” He pulled her in tighter. It was so foreign and so welcome. “Do you really believe that?”

 

Did she? She pictured Seamus there, with whatever dark force had engulfed the Conclave. She tried to picture him cowering as the Divine was killed. Tried to picture him attempting to help but being too weak or too slow. She wanted to believe it, to blame Varric, to think Hawke would have had some brilliant insight in the moment. But she already knew that if there was anything to be done Seamus would have done it.

 

“Can't I?” she asked, peeling herself away enough to look up at him.

 

Sympathy was written all over him. He raised a hand to her face, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “Call me selfish, but I like to think I was brought here for a reason.”

 

“You were.” The words were out of her mouth before she could consider them, but they were right. Whatever daydreams she had of saving Justinia, she could not imagine the Inquisition with anyone else at its head. “You were. But must it follow that Justinia had to die?”

 

“We've all lost. I know the idea that Andraste waited until we'd all lost everyone before she intervened is hard. I know that.” He pressed her in tighter again, until it was almost painful. “But here, now, with each other and the power to change things, that's not so bad, is it?”

 

At that she gave in, resting her head on his shoulder, letting his arms and chest and steady heartbeat be her anchor. It was shame all over again. If she had asked herself at ten, or twenty or thirty if she had ever imagined doing something so profound she never would have imagined. To be ungrateful in this moment was tantamount to blasphemy. She took so much from him and in her anger never considered how he would feel about her demand that another Inquisitor should have been in his place.

 

When she had drawn on his strength all she could she looked up to face him again and cupped his face in her hand. “If it had to be anyone, I am glad it's you.”

 

His brow furrowed, lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn't.

 

Their faces were only inches apart, bodies all but entwined. It would be so easy, she thought, even as she knew he must have thought of it, to lean in an inch, two inches. It already felt so right, like a blanket around the shoulders on a cold night. His arm twitched about her waist, threatening to bring her in closer. His eyes were so blue.

 

Cassandra flicked her gaze to his lips, soft and inviting. The most beautiful man in Thedas, they called him. And he was.

 

She pulled out of his arms. He let her go.

 

She coughed around something lodged in her throat. “Thank you, your Worship. For your support.”

 

If he was going to say anything she didn't let him, already halfway down the stairs before he had the chance.


	19. After - Ten

“You know, little man, you are bordering on being rude.”

 

Walking with Hawke and Isabela was like wandering through a forest made of long human legs, these two always made him feel half his height. They walked the path to the bar like they'd been at Skyhold all their lives, an instinct ingrained into them since long before he had been in their company.

 

Hawke pushed the door open and waved them through. “You could give her a break.”

 

“Be glad it's me asking the questions instead of the Seeker.”

 

“So much for her being a pussycat,” Isabela shot over her shoulder.

 

“So I was wrong, sue me.”

 

The building was fairly full, everyone needed alcohol and needed gossip even more than that. He was supposed to be encouraging this, spreading different sensational stories to keep people wondering what had happened and stop them wondering if they were allowed to leave. It had worked well enough, every table was filled with mixed company talking animatedly, cups or jugs between them. Even the stuffiest of Orlesian nobles couldn't resist finding out what the kitchen maids knew.

 

“Andraste's tits!” Hawke stopped them with a hand up, amused wonder spreading across her face. “Have the two of you ever wondered what my little brother looked like?”

 

Varric followed her gaze to a solitary figure hunched over her drink in the corner. The Warden Commander, who couldn't be as scattered as she played. She sat at a table in the corner, alone, a million miles away.

 

“That's Theodora Amell,” he supplied. “She doesn't look a thing like you, or Bethany.”

 

Isabela pressed a pilfered cup into his hands, balancing her own and Hawke's in her hands since Hawke was already halfway across the room, slipping through the crowd. Varric sighed. This was going to end in an incident.

 

“What's the news, cous?” Hawke took up a seat at the Warden Commander's table and propped her feet up. “It is cous, isn't it? Once removed, or on your mother's side, or something?”

 

Theodora looked up, took a lingering look at Hawke, then at Varric and Isabela as they took their own chairs. She swirled her drink in its cup. “We shared a grandmother, I think. Or a great-grandmother.”

 

“Practically sisters, then,” Hawke grinned, eyeing her cousin over the toe of one boot.

 

“Practically.” The Warden's impassive expression didn't move. Varric had heard stories, he'd told a few stories as well. It was a disappointment to know she was so colourless in person. The Hero of Ferelden, the only person to ever survive killing an archdemon, slayer of golems and dragons and all that business and she couldn't even muster up some conversation.

 

“You know,” Hawke tried again. “You are the spitting image of my little brother.”

 

“Carver.”

 

Hawke blanched. “Did you – How did you...?”

 

Theodora took a long sip of her drink, swirled it again. “Bethany. We worked together a few years ago. I didn't think you would want to keep company with a blood mage.”

 

“How could I not, when we're family? Have you met Isabela or Varric?”

 

“Not formally.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Varric said, bobbing his head to the side to see if he could encourage her into making eye contact. No such luck.

 

“Well we're all captives here together. Tell me, where did you have the misfortune of being when tragedy struck?” Hawke could carry on a conversation with a brick wall. Varric liked that about her most of the time.

 

“In bed.”

 

“Are Wardens such early birds or was it more scandalous than that?”

 

Isabela leaned into Hawke's shoulder. “I bet it was scandalous.”

 

“And you?” Theodora looked up properly. “Were you accounted for?”

 

“Myself, yes. Never one to miss a party. Unfortunately Isabela here indulged a little too much and now Varric has been roped into being her interrogator.”

 

“And what secrets has he uncovered?”

 

“Her love of plum wine, principally.”

 

The candlelight flickered across the Warden's face, casting the sharp lines in deep shadows, punctuated by her startling eyes. A slow, predatory smile curled her lip. “You might hope he finds a little more than that. I doubt things will be amicable around here for much longer.”

 

“I hear the Inquisitor is more gravely wounded than we have been told.”

 

“Is he dead?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“He's not dead,” Varric said, before these two could get too carried away. Maybe having another member of the Hawke family wasn't such a great idea. “He's fine.”

 

“What do you think it was?” Theodora leaned forward. “An assassin in the dead of night?”

 

“Perhaps a spurned lover,” Hawke sat forward conspiratorially.

 

“Or a bride having second thoughts.”

 

“A groom having second thoughts.”

 

Theodora cast her eyes over the rest of them. “Or maybe a drunken pirate.”

 

Isabela laughed. “I'm not that subtle when I'm sober. They've got the wrong end of the stick if anyone's ever had it.”

 

Varric watched the Warden Commander as she talked. He had a good eye for reading people, or at least he did most of the time. It was hard to tell if she was being drawn into her cousin's friendly banter and meeting her playful tone or just outright mocking her. This one had teeth. He just didn't know how sharp.

 

“Maybe we'll all meet our end at the hands of the Seeker,” Hawke suggested, relaxing back. “Never thought it would end like this, being worked over in an Inquisition dungeon.”

 

“I've had the thought once or twice,” Varric murmured. First when he signed up, which Cassandra didn't like, second when he brought Hawke to Skyhold the first time, which Cassandra really didn't like, and third when he made a crude comment to her, and that time it was Seamus who took a chunk out of him. He'd never thought Seamus could yell, could get angry, not real anger.

 

“ _ You humiliated her!” _

 

“ _ She had it coming!” _

 

The more he thought on it the more he hated this. The women could joke all they wanted, that was his friend who might not make it through the night. There was no jealous lover, no second thoughts, just a good man who deserved his wedding day. Cassandra deserved it too.

 

Cassandra was going to do something stupid if he came back to her empty-handed. He wanted this to be over. Some idiot confesses, Seamus wakes up, wedding, wine, lots of ribald jokes at their expense. Over.

 

“Isabela,” he leaned close to her, not interrupting the cousins at play. “Give me something to take back to them.”

 

“You won't let this go, will you?”

 

“It's not me you should worry about convincing.”

 

She looked toward the ceiling, sighed, wrinkled her nose in thought. “I was at the table, next to Hawke. You took her away and I was talking to some... fat duke. He was so dull, I remember thinking he was dull. Then... I wanted some fresh air. I don't know, Varric, every hallway in this place looks the same.”

 

“Think harder.”

 

“I saw some Fereldan ponce skulking about, I didn't recognise him, I was just trying to steady myself a moment on the way to the guest quarters. I think. And I saw... Alistair? It was him, I thought to myself how very much he's grown these last ten years. And all rich, now, too. I should have taken a better run at him when I had the chance.”

 

Alistair again. That man kept popping up all over the place.

 

“You two,” Hawke interrupted them. “Are you going to make my cousin feel so unwelcome by gossiping amongst yourselves?”

 

“Never, my love.” Isabela took her hand.

 

Varric met eyes with Theodora. Hero of Ferelden. Blood mage. She met him, unmoving, unerring, and a shiver ran down his spine.

 

He stood. “I'll get the next round.”


	20. Before - Ten

It had been an accident. The first time, at least. Eventually Cassandra would look back on this and see it as the start of something.

 

But the first time was an accident. They had been most innocently looking to join Hawke in locating Stroud when a shadow blotted out the sun. It had been a moment of awe when the dragon circled overhead, casting a great silhouette over the scrub and rock and ragged grass. She would always remember the strange sort of babble from the four of them, usually a dignified enough group, as it rolled and beat its wings, sun glinting off its scales. Each of them tried in turn to say something, instead uttering strange sounds, little snippets of thoughts.  _ Its scales... Its wings... It's beautiful. _

 

It was an incomparable beast. She had seen, fought and slain dragons before, but as they aged they grew ever larger and more impressive. Standing below this beast while it preened she could see why there were so many paintings, stories, songs. It would take the lifetime of a skilled artist to capture this feeling. The awe kept them in place, made no argument about whether or not they would engage.

 

Of course the thought that they might have run crossed her mind in frantic bursts once it was closer. Dragon-slaying was made into a romantic pursuit, but there was little romantic about seeing Vivienne launched across the clearing by a kick and landing with a painful sounding crunch. There was nothing glorious about trying desperately to keep its attention so that her shield might take the brunt of its lightning breath instead of frying Seamus or Sera. Every shock made her shield arm seize and burn.

 

She roared at the creature and leapt, slamming the weight of her body against her shield and into its snout. She had to keep its attention. If it became more interested in the mages blasting it with fire and ice they were done for.

 

Fighting with Seamus was always chaotic, confusing, fire leaping up from the ground, springing to life from the ether, until there was just smoke and ash and brilliant orange light. She saw none of it. The dragon's head encompassed her whole field of vision, the blast of fireballs a distant sound that convinced her he was still alive.

 

The dragon reared back and opened its mouth, towering over her.

 

Cassandra could hear above all else her breathing and her heart. She noticed the breath coming hard, fast past her lips, counted the moments, counted the heartbeats. The ball of electrical charge built in the dragon's mouth.

 

“Come on,” she gasped. “Come on!”

 

The dragon hit the furthest point of its stretch, its breath hitched and Cassandra threw herself down and forward just as its lightning hit the spot where she had been standing.

 

A few moments of advantage, her body knew without her mind having to catch up. It would finish its breath, hit or no hit, its neck stretched out and close to her.

 

The great, scaled neck was within her reach from the ground. Beautiful, powerful, even in this desperate moment. She aimed for a spot where the scales had been pierced by a bolt, and thrust her sword in with all her strength.

 

The blood was immediate, a torrent of it pouring down and soaking her. She twisted the sword, tearing as much of the vein and muscle as she could, before she felt the sickening slide of her sword penetrating the windpipe.

 

Her sword was yanked out of her hands when the dragon reared and screamed, its lightning burbling out of its mouth, then blood. It thrashed and she could do nothing except pray, unable to climb to her feet and run without being caught in its throes. She held her breath and pressed herself flat against the ground, the world turning to fire and lightning and blood and that terrible, desperate scream.

 

Sunlight hit her eyes as the dragon jumped back. It limped, wheezed, trying to escape them even as it was dying. She didn't see it from then, the sunlight and the adrenaline blinding her as she lay flat on the ground, only hearing its last breaths. It collapsed somewhere to her left and was silent.

 

Cassandra lay where she had fallen, shield in one hand, the other aching from the force of her sword's departure. The longer she lay still the more pains she noticed, the rush of battle fading. Her ankles and her wrists, her ribs, her knees, her shoulders. The rise and fall of her chest, the thump of her heart and the pain were all she felt. Had they really just killed a high dragon?

 

Another shape intruded on the sunlight, the silhouette of Seamus extending a hand to her. “Hey there.”

 

“Hello,” she said.

 

“Ready to get up?”

 

She took a few more deep breaths. Her lungs burned. She nodded and took the offered hand, allowing him to help her up.

 

She nearly collapsed again, her legs jelly under her.

 

Seamus caught her, one arm around her waist, the other securing her arm around his shoulders. “None of that, Seeker, I won't be able to pick you up again.”

 

She laughed dryly and let him lead her to where their conquest lay, still radiating heat. In an awkward tangle of uncooperative limbs he set her down and sat beside her, the two of them leaning back against the dead dragon.

 

Cassandra took him in, sweat-soaked hair falling across his flushed face, hands shaking, grinning widely. His heart must have been beating as fast as her own.

 

He reached a trembling hand into his breast pocket and drew out a handkerchief, offering it to her.

 

She realised there was an aggravating dripping on her face, metallic liquid drop by drop on her lips and eyelashes. She hadn't noticed it but when she did she started laughing. She took the handkerchief and laughed, wiping the most irritating and itchy places on her face, but she could only imagine what she looked like. She was drenched. Soaked from head to toe. She smothered her laughter into the cloth. “I think I will need more than a handkerchief.”

 

Seamus let out a bark of laughter. “I don't know, dragon-slayer is a good look on you.”

 

Cassandra looked for Vivienne, finding her some way away, tending to Sera, both of them in their own post-battle stupor. She buried her face in Seamus’ favour, trying to get at least some part of her clean, though now the fervour of the fight was wearing off she could feel rivulets of the stuff sliding down her back.

 

“That was a fight they will retell in tales,” she said, leaning back against the dragon.

 

“I believe you were promised some dragon-hunting in your life.”

 

She smiled, eyes closed, head back. “I was.”

 

Tony had promised her. If she had known what it would be like she would have boxed his ears for trying to drag his little sister into such a thing.

 

“You're living up to the Pentaghast n–” He cut himself off with a hiss of pain.

 

Cassandra's eyes shot open and she turned to him, looking for the injury. She hadn't noticed. His overcoat was sliced clean through at his ribs, the edges stained red.

 

“You're injured.” She peeled the coat back and he didn't resist.

 

“It's nothing.”

 

The gash was smaller than the tear to his clothes, but it was deep and an angry red. “It's not nothing.”

 

His undershirt was in her way so she pushed it up without thinking, leaving herself blindsided when she exposed his belly and chest. It was just a flash of the tantalising flesh, she was focused on the wound, but something in the back of her mind kicked her, hard, telling her what an idiot she was, that she didn't need anything else to think about in the dead of night.

 

She pressed ginger fingertips against the wound, trying to ascertain how deeply the dragon had cut him. It didn't seem serious, if it was treated quickly. Her movements, her mind was slowed, caught between two sides. On one hand, his physical health was imperative to the future of Thedas and she needed to treat any threat to him with the utmost gravity. On the other hand she had half undressed him and could feel the heat of his skin, make out every line of muscle under his skin, leaned over him, his breath ruffling her hair.

 

His hand fell to her hip. “Cassandra, it's nothing.”

 

_ Ignore it _ , she told herself. This was important.  _ Ignore it. _

 

Suddenly she wished she could teleport them away from this place, to her silent, private quarters in Skyhold. She wanted him fully shirtless, her hands clean. She could dab a poultice of elfroot against the injury while his hand clutched at her, tightening with the sting of it. She could -

 

“Are we interrupting?” Sera's sing-song rang out.

 

Cassandra looked up at them, not letting the insinuation deter her. “Vivienne do you have any elfroot? The Inquisitor is injured.”

 

Vivienne rifled through her pack. Seamus' hand dropped from her hip. Cassandra brought herself back to reality, her blood finally cooling. She could not be so stupid as to let this attraction distract her. Nothing would come of it. Seamus was the most eligible man in Thedas at this moment and had shown no interest in anyone. It was a path that could only lead to her making a fool of herself.

 

So she accepted the elfroot, dressed the wound, and refused to think about where her mind had wandered.


	21. After - Eleven

“Ambassador, I don't know how I can possibly be of help to you.” Fiona was a tiny thing, even for an elf. Dorian towered over her seated as they were in one of Skyhold's many solars. But she had a certain presence to her, he'd give her that.

 

“I think the better question is how can you help yourself? We have at least one witness who says you weren't in the library, and Morrigan's word is as good as no word at all.”

 

Fiona clasped the cup of tea in her hands, a helpless sort of gesture. “What would you have of me? I led the mages as allies to the Inquisition. Lord Trevelyan and I are friends, both liberated Circle mages. Why would I harm him?”

 

“Come now, Grand Enchantress, we both know friends and allies are very different things.” He almost liked this sort of work. The trickery of politics without the tedium. Perhaps Leliana would make a spy of him yet.

 

“You think I fear his alliance with the Chantry.”

 

“Do you?”

 

The sun peeked over the mountaintops, beginning the day's heat, but for the moment just wintery white rays bled through the room. Fiona was an aging woman, but she had a sort of grace to her in that light as she met his eye. “Please do not presume to know how Southern mages think, Ambassador. My people have never been safer than with Lord Trevelyan leading the Inquisition and Divine Victoria leading the Chantry. The loss of either would be a great blow to the College.”

 

A book sat on the end table, forgotten by some other occupant.  _ Swords and Shields _ . It was hard to believe anyone else in this place had such bad taste. No wonder it was abandoned by its reader. Cassandra was the only one who could stomach it.

 

“So you say. If you would give us some better proof of your innocence we could probably call off the dogs.”

 

“Are you the dog in this scenario?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She was so serene, so small, so soft-spoken. One could almost forget they were talking to a Grey Warden, a wartime general. Many of the other suspects bordered on absurd when imagining them slipping into a darkened chamber and dripping poison onto a sleeping man's lips. For Fiona he could imagine it to be her  _ modus operandi _ .

 

“So you will cast me a violent thug because someone claims I was not where I was? Has the Inquisition become so uncivilised?”

 

Dorian ran a finger down the spine of the book. “Are you familiar with essence of laurel?”

 

Fiona paled. “Yes.”

 

“Yes, I suppose you must be. You know what it is, what it does to a mage.”

 

“Are you saying...” The weight of it settled on her. He didn't enjoy being so underhanded, but if she wanted a reason to talk he would give her one. She had undoubtedly seen many of her charges drugged with the stuff and dragged away. “Who would do such a thing?”

 

“Who would know to do such a thing? Those with no magic think of it as a party drug. So who would look at that bottle and see poison?”

 

“I am not the only mage in these halls, ser,” Fiona's voice rose with indignity. “Nor the only person who could identify such a substance.”

 

“You are one of a handful of mages unaccounted for that night, and by far the most secretive about your own supposed whereabouts.”

 

“I might have expected such treatment from others, but to condemn your own kind, to not accept our testimony? How unexpected from you, Ambassador Pavus.”

 

He traced the divots on the cover, the lines of illustration, as if such a book should be illustrated. He would castigate Cassandra again for her taste when this was over. He would. He would get the chance to see her whole enough to bear it. He would make it happen.

 

“You should choose your company far more carefully, Grand Enchantress.”

 

She straightened in her seat. “Is that it, then? Am I accused?”

 

Dorian studied her. She was afraid. Of the truth or falsity of the charge he couldn't decide. “No. I am here to appeal to your better angels. A man lies dying, a victim of the same poison you know to be a living death. A man you claim as a friend.”

 

“I ask again: what would you have of me?”

 

“Let us take one suspect off our list. You and Morrigan have no affiliation. No common business except a wedding. Why would you meet with her in the dead of night in this place?”

 

Fiona wrung her hands together, her calm finally cracking. “We have family in common.”

 

“Family? Given her lineage that is not heartening.”

 

“I... No, I cannot say more.”

 

Dorian took the book into his hand, gesturing with it toward the tower where Seamus lay in state. “Even with that man's life on the line?”

 

Fiona swallowed, darted her eyes about, and he thought he had her. She didn't want him to die and didn't want his attacker to walk free. No one could be so cold-hearted as to see their friend in such suffering and refuse to involve themselves.

 

But she shook her head. “If I am to be accused then so be it. I will say no more.”

 

_ Damn her to the pit. _

 

Dorian thought about arguing more, but he had backed her into a defensive posture. Another time, after she'd digested it perhaps. Or if she was the guilty party, never.

 

He rose from his chair and walked out without any pleasantries, the stupid book still clutched in one hand. What an odious woman. He had gone into that conversation convinced she was innocent and ended it almost certain she was guilty. No one could accuse him of not giving her a chance to explain.

 

Just one name off the list would have satisfied him.

 

He let himself huff down the stairs, the hard heels of his boots clacking against the stone steps. He thought to take the book to Cassandra, wondering if it would make her laugh or stab him. Probably stab him. There had to be some way to lighten her mood, give her a little glimmer of hope in all this. Wouldn't she feel the fool if Seamus woke up and told her he'd mistaken the dosage?

 

A flash of black caught his eye, a great crow setting on the windowsill near the great hall. He fluttered a hand at it, encouraging it to move on, but it simply looked at him through one yellow eye, unimpressed with his attempt at pest control.

 

Dorian opened the door and took a half-step through it before he stopped. He looked over his shoulder and jerked in surprise, although he'd suspected what he would find.

 

He slapped a hand to his chest. “How unnecessary.”

 

“My apologies,” Morrigan said, sitting on the sill. “I did not think such important men startled so easily.”

 

“Is that so? Because I rather think you did.”

 

“If you do not wish my information, I will leave you.”

 

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Come now. Are you here to plead your case?”

 

She smirked. “Not my own. I keep confidences when it suits, but I don't care to see Fiona hang herself with so little rope. Not when we are only just acquainted.”

 

“Then plead her case, if that's what pleases you.”

 

“She and I have a prior acquaintanceship, and a close one. She asked for my presence to find out the fate of her grandson, my son Kieran.”

 

Dorian vaguely remembered a little boy, a dissonant maternal streak in her. “So that's her big secret? That she had a son, and that son had an affair with you? How disappointing.”

 

“Isn't it?”

 

“At least it's believable. Thank you, for that.”

 

Morrigan smiled the sort of smile that made him think there was more going on than he understood. Or perhaps she was just condescending. “You are most welcome. But as disappointing as it is, I'd keep it under your hat, were I you. If you wish to keep the peace in Skyhold a while longer.”

 

Dorian had nothing to say and so opted for an exaggerated bow of his head. “Lady Morrigan.”

 

“Lord Pavus.”

 

A great crow flew from the window and he gripped the book tighter.


	22. Before - Eleven

“So how are we all dealing?” Sera asked, dealing out another hand of cards at her table. “ _ Emotionally _ , yeah? With the idea of the Inquisitor in formalwear?”

 

She ducked as a piece of food was thrown at her. Cassandra didn't raise her face from her hands.

 

“I am 'dealing' with it very well, in fact,” Dorian announced.

 

“Just, you know, checking in,” Sera continued. “Making sure. That everyone's doing alright. With that.”

 

Cassandra was dealing with it poorly. In fact, she was handling everything that came at her today with the grace and tact of a teenager. It had gotten to a point where she would happily accept the idea that a demon of some kind had ensorcelled her if it meant today had not existed.

 

The very idea that she would have to see Seamus fit to be presented to the Empress, with all the beauty and command that entailed, when he had seen her so very low was enough to want the floor to swallow her whole.

 

“Sera,” Cassandra groaned into her hands, “you aren't attracted to men.”

 

“She's not wrong,” Leliana said.

 

“Oh, don't suck all the fun out of it! There's not that much to do around here except watch half the castle make idiots out of themselves mooning over him.”

 

“Maybe you should watch your cards more carefully,” Dorian said.

 

If Cassandra had ever made a fool out of herself mooning over him, which she most certainly had, it was nothing compared to the moment he had caught her reading  _ Swords and Shields _ . She couldn't even remember everything she'd said. At one point she'd told him to order Varric to finish it. She sunk further down toward the table.

 

“Did you see the way he was talking to Scout Harding?” Sera giggled. “There's another one gone. Betty up in the library almost fainted when he took his jacket off in front of her.”

 

Cassandra sunk lower.

 

Sera was right, and that was hard to admit. She could only sympathise with Betty in the library, having so recently lost her own senses over Seamus in an unexpected state of undress. She was going to die of this. He was an affliction that spelt her end.

 

“I'm starting a pool.” Sera's chatter in the background was incessant, needling the wound. “The first one to try to slip a love potion into his drink.”

 

“There's no such thing as love potions,” Leliana said.

 

“Don't tell that to Madame Claire's customers, it's half her trade. Bonkers, isn't it?”

 

A heavy cup clunked down in front of Cassandra. She raised her face long enough to see Leliana taking a seat across from her.

 

“The last thing I need right now,” Cassandra said. If she was so maudlin and mortified sober then her drunkenness was sure to amuse Sera.

 

“The only thing you need,” Leliana said and nudged the cup closer. “I could always make her stop talking.”

 

Cassandra shook her head and dolefully accepted the cup. Worse than anything Sera said was that she was allowed to say it. She enjoyed a privileged position. He was friends with everyone, even people he had no right to find common ground with. But as he often elected to take her, Vivienne and Sera on his sojourns into the field, Sera was the only one fitting to share his tent. And with that came a certain familiarity. They could often be heard talking and laughing into the night.

 

If anyone knew how he felt about his horde of admirers it was Sera. And Sera thought it was a joke.

 

And what a joke. She flattered herself that she had kept any unwarranted feelings to herself, but she could not pretend she avoided intimacy with him. She had bared her soul to him more than once without intending to, and how many young women about Skyhold had done the same hoping for a scrap of his attention? He must so often find people off-guard, unawares, begging for him to be the one to expose their secrets and share their private moments.

 

Like finding them reading their favourite romance novel. In the novel itself she knew how the scene would play out. The hero would find her engaged in some shameful activity, but he would find it enticing, he would be intrigued and want to know more about her. In her life, however, he had said all the kind things but the overriding emotion she saw on his face was shocked humour. The same sort of laughter now pouring from Sera.

 

Leliana reached forward, put one finger on the base of her cup, and tipped it toward her mouth.

 

“Whatever you're thinking, don't.”

 

Cassandra took her in, her always-ready posture, her lips trying to quirk in a smile but holding back. “She's right.”

 

“Sera is a lot of things, but right is rarely one of them.”

 

She didn't want to elaborate. How could she? Her thoughts were so often commandeered by unthinkable things. What might have happened if she had just leaned forward when she was in his arms. The trail of fine red hair running down from his chest. How his eyes burned when he spoke the chant. How his hands burned when he placed them on her.

 

It was all so jarring. Most of her day was spent in training, or prayer, or fighting. The world is going to end. Corypheus is too strong. The Maker might have abandoned or saved us. Where are her missing Seekers? And then out of nowhere, what his lips would feel like on her neck, his hands on her waist, what sounds he might make in ecstasy.

 

How could she admit such a thing to Leliana?

 

Especially after today.

 

She had to let this go, to purge it from her system. She took a large gulp of wine. This had not been her intention when she swore to be warm to him. Warmth was the promise, not burning heat. Not this. She had not cared for a man as more than a friend in a long time, more than a decade. Seamus Trevelyan was mad if he thought he could just walk into her life and change that.

 

She downed the rest of the cup in a single gulp and held it out to Leliana for more.

 

Leliana poured and chuckled. “That bad, is it?”

 

“Is what that bad?” Cassandra asked.

 

Leliana raised an eyebrow, her lips parted, and stared at her a long moment. “Nothing. I must have had too much myself.”

 

“It's not...” Cassandra downed her drink, letting it settle acidic in her stomach. “Sera makes so much of it.”

 

“You'd be the outcast if he wasn't your friend.”

 

“He is my friend. He's a good friend.”

 

A knock on the door almost went unheard over their ruckus. Cassandra looked down from the loft. Who knocked on the door to the armoury? Anyone in their circle might as well have come and joined them, so she assumed it was a servant or someone else equally in inappropriate awe of them.

 

Leliana smiled at her. “You should get it.”

 

She rose to her feet. Her head spun a little, she wasn't used to drinking more than the occasional indulgence, but she managed to arrange her feet underneath herself well enough. She took the stairs, the creak of the wood echoing in the empty room. Whoever had disturbed their party at this time of night should have known better.

 

She swung the door open, unprepared to find Seamus on the other side, clutching a sheaf of paper.

 

Her stomach did a strange flip flop, either from the bad wine or the surprise. She had no chance to hide, Sera's words and her own ringing in her head, all she could do was face him.

 

“My lord,” she stammered.

 

He raised an eyebrow. “My lady.” He held out the papers, bound together with a string. “Varric says it needs editing.”

 

She stared at the proffered papers a moment too long, her tipsy brain taking in what they were. The book. The one she had asked for.

 

Not only had he done the impossible for her, it had taken him six hours.

 

Cassandra could feel the stupor on her face but was too distant to do anything about it. She reached out and took the heavy stack from him. “How did you..?”

 

“This might have been the only time I had to make a deal with a demon.” He flashed her his wicked, intoxicating smile.

 

Cassandra looked at the book, then to him, then back to the book, and to him. He was so lovely in that moment, earnest and joyful, big blue eyes full of light. She couldn't believe he had done this for her. She couldn't have talked Varric out of a manuscript if she had a thousand years to work. But he could. And he had. For her.

 

She glanced up at him, the panic setting in her chest, and slammed the door between them, clutching the book to her chest.

 

She had to stop this.

 

And he wasn't helping.


	23. After - Twelve

When Cullen had found Cassandra missing a thousand thoughts raced through his head. She had been with Seamus or with the council every minute since it had happened, no doubt terrified she would be absent when something critical happened. If Seamus twitched in his sleep she wanted to be there, if they crossed a single name off the list she wanted to be there.

 

So he and a few others were stumbling madly about the keep when a guard had pointed him up onto the battlements and he had a feeling he'd know where to find her. It was almost a farce, her keeping her own quarters. She and Seamus had made a good show of it, pretending she spent her nights in her own bed, but it was only ever a show. Their whole relationship had been as easy to read on Cassandra as if she were carrying a sign, so long as a person took the time to peel back two or three layers of steel. Every high and low had cast her in a different mood.

 

He found her as expected, the door to her quarters open a few inches and he edged it open further. She stood in the centre of the room, sun rays from the door illuminating every mote of dust in the air. It was a dark place after the light of Seamus' loft.

 

She stood in front of a dress displayed on a mannequin, tracing her fingers over the lace. It was a lovely dress, in gold, probably made by someone in Val Royeaux with an unpronounceable name. Simple, not too feminine. Suited to her.

 

“I've never imagined you owning a dress,” he said, hoping she still had the energy to be startled.

 

She didn't flinch, didn't look up. “He talked me into it. He said I wanted it.”

 

“Was he right?”

 

She scoffed. “He's always right.”

 

Cullen decided that was as good as an invitation, so he shut the door behind him and took a seat on her bed. He was never sure what to do with a friend in emotional distress, but she had been beside him through every tremor of his lyrium withdrawal so he could return the favour. It was its own kind of relief to hear her talk about Seamus. Maybe she could bear to face it.

 

“Shouldn't you be pleased to have a man who knows you so well?” he asked.

 

“Do you know how irritating it is to love a man who is always right?”

 

“I've never been in love.”

 

She looked at him. Maker, she was worse with every hour. “Haven't you? We assumed you had a tryst with the Warden Commander.”

 

Cullen waved away the notion. “A boyhood crush. Nothing like what you have.”

 

“Then let me tell you there's something to be said for being wrong sometimes. There's something to be said for... fumbling through things, together.”

 

“Seamus doesn't fumble.”

 

“No, he doesn't.”

 

“But you're allowed to.”

 

She turned back to her dress, reaching for it again. “Is that what I'm doing? That suggests that there is some right path I could stumble onto, that I have enough choices to choose wrong.”

 

She was suffocating. He didn't know how to stop it.

 

“You need rest, Cassandra. Proper rest, not just waiting with your eyes closed.”

 

She nodded. “Did you come here to tell me something?”

 

“I'm sorry I don't have better news. Our suspects are liars and drunks but none of them are assassins yet. We might have struck Fiona and Morrigan off the list.”

 

She nodded again, probably not taking anything in at this point. He doubted she'd slept a wink in that chair, even if her eyes were closed. No one could sleep easy on their lover's deathbed. The loft felt like a tomb. The whole place was starting to feel like a tomb. If their guests didn't have to stay by order he would have wanted them for their noise. It felt wrong to tread so quietly everywhere as if they were afraid of waking Seamus.

 

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

 

“Josephine's servants have all but shoved the food down my throat.”

 

“Did you sleep at all?”

 

“A little, I think.”

 

Cullen stood up and approached her. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Cassandra, have you cried for him yet?”

 

“I keep thinking I will, but I don't. I just stare, like it will do some good.”

 

“I know how angry you must be, but it's alright to be sad as well.”

 

“I am angry,” she said, voice flat. “He just had to be right one more time, that would have been enough to save him. But he wasn't. And I did as he said, because he is always right.”

 

“You can't blame yourself for this.”

 

“And why not? I wanted to go with him. He was in pain, I always tend to him when he is in pain. If I had not listened to him I would have been there and any attacker would have had to go through me. At least he might not have been such easy prey. I didn't think for myself, I just listened!” She struck out at the mannequin and it clattered to the ground, her gold dress crumpling onto the dusty floor. “He is the Herald of Andraste, everything he has done for four years has been ordained! He guesses right, his gambles pay off, his trust is rewarded every time so why not now _? _ ”

 

Cullen grasped her shoulder tighter. What could he say? On another day he might have reminded her of Andraste's mercy, the Maker's promise. That would soothe a lesser grief than this. There was no remedy for this, nothing he could do to ease it. The best he could do was listen and hope that didn't make anything worse. She wasn't the only one feeling the loss of their seemingly infallible leader. Seamus made this all look so easy.

 

What would he do? Cullen could imagine the posture, confident but alert. The expression, fierce but compassionate. The tone of voice, assertive but not demanding. He couldn't imagine the words and he wasn't brave enough to take her into his arms. If Seamus hadn't been made special by Andraste he had proven himself so by simply walking up and grabbing the tiger by the tail. He'd held onto that tail for four years but she had to get loose someday.

 

Cullen tried. He had to try for her. He straightened, thought of the expression, the tone. Whatever Seamus would do. “Cassandra...”

 

“I can't be up there, Cullen. I can't bear it anymore. I can't wake him. I can't find his killer. I can't do anything.”

 

“Then do something for me.”

 

“What? Tell me how I can be of use.”

 

“I just want you to do something for me without argument. I'm going to get one of the mages to bring you something to help you sleep.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to reply. “No argument. You're no good to him dead on your feet. When you can think clearly you'll stand a chance at making some headway.”

 

She stared at her dress on the floor, her mouth hardening to a thin line. For a tense second he thought she would refuse, but when her shoulders slumped he knew that he had won. Maybe, just maybe, they could restore sanity before everything spun out of control.

 

“You're right. Send your mage, I'll rest here.”

 

“I will.” He pulled her in, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a squeeze. It was as bold as he dared be. “It must all feel hopeless right now, but it did as well when he was pulled out of the Conclave, when he was buried under Haven, when he was thrown into the Fade... I can't even list all the times. Just keep faith a little longer, we're going to save him.”

 

She stared at him with dead eyes. He let her go, he had to find a mage and get her to rest. She didn't watch him leave. He'd have someone watch Seamus, if he passed away while she was sleeping she'd never forgive herself.

 

It was going to take more than this to help her, to get her back to herself, but at least she'd agreed to something. Or at least she'd been too tired to argue.

 

The smallest of victories on this front was sorely needed. The other front was going to be more challenging. Their list of serious suspects shrunk hourly and there were still a few dreaded names that stuck. Morrigan and Fiona had potentially exonerated themselves but implicated Arl Teagan, one of the most vocal critics of the Inquisition. Accusing Teagan wasn't as bad as accusing the king, but it was close. Alistair wouldn't hand over his own uncle for punishment.

 

One step at a time. For now he had a Seeker to sedate.

 


	24. Before - Twelve

Cassandra should not have read a romance novel.

 

She had read the previous chapter of _Swords and Shields_ until the pages were dog-eared and curling, it had not meant much to read it once more. Something new was another matter entirely.

 

She sat in the library sconce on an overstuffed chair, a candle burning beside her and Dorian across from her, engrossed in his own book. It was a little more difficult to read a stack of papers than a bound book, but she hadn't thought any of it would matter, she had been looking forward to letting hours slip away while she sat engrossed. There had been three weeks and a trip to the Exalted Plains between the time he had given her this book and the time she had found a free evening to read it.

 

It all seemed so silly now. It had always seemed silly, but a kind that she could permit herself. Everyone said she was too serious, it was a redeeming feature that she found time for a little harmless fun. Even by that standard this now seemed ridiculous.

 

She read the pages but they didn't penetrate. She couldn't wrap herself up in this the way she wanted. It was like wrapping herself in a favoured blanket and discovering a great hole in it so it no longer covered her shoulders.

 

“I know the last one was bad, but from the look on your face this one is worse,” Dorian said.

 

“The last one was not bad.”

 

“Yes it was.”

 

She looked up. He hadn't taken his eyes off his own book. “And what are you reading that is so engrossing?”

 

“Oh, the usual schlock. Still not as bad as yours.”

 

“Maybe it does need editing.” She frowned at the book in her hands. Perhaps Varric had lost his touch, or the first draft was not worth reading. More likely the problem was her. She was too focused on their troubles, even this night off was too much like slacking. Maybe they were all right, she was too uptight.

 

“I wouldn't go into an existential crisis over it, Seeker.”

 

“Over what?”

 

He glanced up and gave her a condescending smirk. “You know, whenever I'm having some fun in my actual life these books don't hold quite the same appeal.”

 

“Then by all accounts I should be enthralled.”

 

“Oh? Have I been imagining that extra spring in your step lately?”

 

She set her papers down, indignant. “You most certainly have.”

 

“My mistake, then.” He smirked again, this time into the pages of his book, his attention drawn from her again.

 

“What is it you think you know, Tevinter?”

 

“Nothing, apparently.”

 

It's not bad, she wanted to say. No worse than the others. She just couldn't picture any of it. The brush of skin against skin, secret promises, longing and desire. It wasn't fitting together right, something off about it that she couldn't put her finger on. It wasn't stirring any buried passions or fantasies in her, it was just a terrible book, filled with stiff actors on a badly made stage.

 

A knocking sound caught her attention and she looked up to see Seamus, rapping two knuckles on the bookcase like it was a door, smiling fondly. “I'm not disturbing anything, I hope.”

 

“Not at all, your Worship,” Dorian said without looking up. “Are you here to enjoy some terrible literature? Cassandra's found the worst book ever written so we must all read it of course.”

 

Seamus frowned. “Not enjoying my gift?”

 

Dorian's reaction was instant, his gaze shooting straight to her and his face lighting up with a delighted, scandalised grin, eyebrows raised.

 

Cassandra shot to her feet, trying to put the book down at the same time and feeling some of the papers slip out of her grasp as she did. “No, I mean, yes, I am enjoying it. Very much.”

 

She walked past Seamus, praying he would follow her and not stay to elaborate to Dorian. The damned Tevinter's amusement was tangible behind her, but Seamus fell into step, letting her lead him far enough away that she could stop blushing so fiercely.

 

“I suppose I'm not in the mood for reading,” she finished lamely.

 

He held out his arm. “Will you walk with me? It's a lovely night.”

 

She took the offered arm, her mind still stuck on how to convince Dorian he had not witnessed anything to get excited about. A hopeless cause, she knew. Her denial would just make it the more tantalising for him, give more substance to his imagination.

 

If he took hold of this, which he certainly would, it was just a matter of time before everyone else in Skyhold heard his version of events. Which would include her immediately disappearing with the Inquisitor and not returning to their reading session. She had panicked and made it worse. Oh, Maker help her she always managed to make things look worse than they were. How could she keep herself so clear and calm as a Seeker and yet be such a disaster as a human woman?

 

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn't realise she hadn't said a word as Seamus led her downstairs and pushed open the door to the battlements. The cold night air shocked her back into herself.

 

“I'm grateful for the book, my l-” She stopped herself and sighed. “Seamus.”

 

“I'm glad. I haven't heard from you in so long I was beginning to think I offended you.”

 

“No.” She frowned, clutching his forearm a little tighter. “I haven't had the opportunity since...”

 

“Since you slammed a door in my face?”

 

Heat rose in Cassandra's face. He was smiling at her, he was teasing. He was too gentle and kind to take offence at her moment of fright, but she still felt ashamed of her behaviour. She always seemed to come away from their interactions having behaved poorly.

 

“I am... sorry. For that.”

 

“I won't hold it against you. But I would like to know why, if you'll tell me.”

 

And what could she possibly say to that?

 

 _I don't know what to do with you_. In that moment she could either have pulled back from him or made a fool of herself. She couldn't stand the thought that she might make her friendship a burden on him. If everyone else had noticed how flustered she became around him it was her only saving grace that he hadn't noticed.

 

They could walk along the battlements on a night like this, the cold bracing, the sky clear and stars shining, moon full and beautiful, without the pressure he might feel if he suspected what was troubling her heart. She would no longer be his friend, his confidante, but one of his horde of admirers. Worse than insulting him was the idea that he might pull away.

 

“I am not accustomed to being given gifts, and not such personal ones. I... behaved poorly in the moment. I must apologise again, it was unworthy of me.”

 

“No,” he said, a little sharp. “No, I should be apologising. It was too much. I'd never seen you so excited about anything and I let myself get carried away. I'm sorry.”

 

Cassandra cursed herself. He was so forlorn and she didn't want his apologies. It was far from too much, it was not enough. He made her ravenously greedy, such a perfect gift was not enough when accompanied only with a smile instead of a kiss.

 

“It was thoughtful and kind. My social shortcomings are not your fault.”

 

Seamus drifted to a stop, taking her with him. He took her hands in his, sending a burst of warmth and treacherous hope through her. She intertwined her fingers with his, hoping she was not breathing so hard he noticed it. The mountains were serene and beautiful in the moonlight, surrounding them, and the light shone in his eyes.

 

“I don't want to be rash with you, Cassandra.”

 

_His eyes reflect the heavens' stars, the Maker's light._

 

“Seamus...” The words dried up in her mouth and all she could do was gaze into his eyes.

 

“I rely on our friendship. You are the rock that I lean on when all of this becomes too much. I couldn't bear you pulling away from me.”

 

The panic rose in her chest, mixing with the heat in her gut and the tingling under her skin. The same thing that had caused her to close the door that night. He stood here begging her not to slam it again, but that meant her other option was the only one left to her.

 

 _Idiot_ , her mind spat at her. There was a middle ground between throwing herself at him and locking him out completely. She had to be stronger, better than she had been. This feeling was not familiar to her, that didn't mean she had to let it steer her like a ship in a storm. She had her own mind, she could think and make a good decision here.

 

“You will always have my friendship,” she said, keeping her voice even. “You never have to fear on that count.”

 

He smiled at her, so achingly sweet, and she was smiling with him without meaning to. He squeezed her hands lightly and it was like he had lit a fuse, sending a shudder through her whole body. Maker, he was going to be the death of her.

 

“Are you cold?” he asked.

 

“No.” _Freezing_. She shook her head and leaned against the parapet, looking out over the mountains. “Let's stay out a while longer.”


	25. After - Thirteen

Leliana smoothed out her habit. It had taken only days of wearing her civilian clothing to make her usual outfit feel strange. It wasn't practical, that was what made it so difficult. When she wore the robe and the veil her posture had to be perfect, her movements limited. In this dress she was to sit in a chair and hand down edicts, not do her own work.

 

“Are you ready, your Perfection?”

 

She smiled to herself. “You don't have to call me that, Josie. Not in my own quarters.”

 

Josephine laughed. “It seems a touch strange to be on first name terms with the Divine.”

 

“Surely you've rubbed enough shoulders by this time to be on first name terms with everyone. You call Seamus by his name.”

 

“Seamus is different,” Josie said.

 

“He is, isn't he? He always was.”

 

She straightened herself out again. It would have been easier if her Revered Mothers weren't in exile. Josie moved behind her, adjusting her train.

 

“Have you given him your benediction?” Josie asked.

 

Leliana shook her head. “No. I know that I should.”

 

“Then why don't you?”

 

“It's Seamus. Whenever I walk up there I feel like a spy in a fancy dress. I was his spymaster and now I'm supposed to intercede on his behalf with the Maker?”

 

“You are the Divine.” Josie smoothed out her shoulders started adjusting the buttons at her back. “Whatever you were three years ago,  I hope your return here has not undermined your confidence in your new position.”

 

“I know. It hasn't.”

 

They were just words. She didn't give them any power, she was only human. When she met strangers, saw the pilgrims in Val Royeaux she could at least see the Maker's hand in the meeting, if not the exact words she said. There was nothing divine in her being here for Seamus' wedding. She couldn't just stand over him and pretend to cast a spell like a street performer.

 

The masses might believe her ascent was ordained but she knew well enough it was political. And although they'd never spoken of it, she knew well enough that it should have been Cassandra. It wasn't like she had become a mage who could harness the Maker's will like the fade.

 

“Do you know the Arl?”

 

Leliana thought a moment. “Yes. In passing, at least. He was in Redcliffe when Theodora liberated it, and at the Landsmeet where she crowned Alistair. I can't say we were close.”

 

“You make it sound as if you were barely present.”

 

“I... She was one of those special people, you know? Like Seamus. I was there during the Blight but it wasn't my moment. She used to be as large as life.”

 

“Whenever I ask about the Blight people talk about how others used to be. Arl Teagan was a handsome, kind-spirited peacemaker. The Warden Commander was a theatrical trickster. King Alistair was an urchin child. Were there no survivors at all?”

 

“Not one. It's hard to believe it lasted less than a year.”

 

“And what about you, your Perfection? What do they say about you during the Blight?”

 

Leliana thought a moment, then the laughter bubbled up from within her. “I was a lay sister at a Chantry. I think I've come full circle.”

 

“Perhaps it was ordained after all.”

 

“We can hope so, can't we?”

 

Josephine stepped back from her, inspecting her work. “We'll find you an attendant going forward, I think, but you are presentable. Let us attend to our guests.”

 

Josephine opened the door for her but Leliana paused. She wasn't looking forward to this. She hated that she had to do it at all, for more reasons than one. The way this could have been weighed her down like a millstone around the neck. Cassandra and Seamus should have been married two days by now. Cassandra was always so pleasant to be around when love-drunk.

 

“I had their apartments made up in Val Royeaux, you know. I oversaw it personally.” She twisted her flowing sleeves in her hands. “I know Cassandra won't always be there, she has her Seekers, but I wanted them to be happy. I wanted it to be a home for them.”

 

Josephine reached out and took her hand, jutted her chin out in defiance. “And they will appreciate your efforts when they move in.”

 

“Thank you, Josie. You always know what to say.”

 

She let Josephine be her guide down to the great hall. People had gathered. More than necessary. The festivities of the wedding were being substituted for the spectacle of a trial. Those innocent were delighted by the prospect of their enemies being accused or just the intrigue of it all. Most of their guests were Orlesian and there was little an Orlesian liked as much as a Fereldan being taken to task.

 

The crowd parted for her, some bowing, some kneeling. Alistair and Teagan stood at the front of the mob, waiting for her. She swept past them and took up a seat on Seamus' throne. It wasn't as grand as her own, but evoked the same satisfying feeling. She was in control of this room, the gathered crowd hung on her every word and gesture.

 

Leliana met Alistair's eyes. He was the only one of them to have hung onto a sliver of himself, she thought. There was still something gentle there. Not pleased at the turn of events, but gentle.

 

“Arl Teagan,” she said. “Step forward.”

 

Teagan stepped from Alistair's side, taking centre stage. He bowed. “Most Holy.”

 

“It is a crime to lie to me, in every nation in Thedas and in the eyes of the Maker himself. Do you understand this?”

 

“I do, your Perfection.” He was keeping it together so far. He didn't look nervous. He'd lost his looks over the years, and his temperament. How unfortunate. He had been so kind to them in Redcliffe.

 

“You spoke, passionately, against the Inquisition retaining its status as an organisation in Ferelden. Many times you stated that you wished to see it dispersed You took issue with it maintaining permanent outpost at Caer Branoch, among other things.”

 

“I did.”

 

“Now there has been an attack against the Inquisitor's person. If he died the Inquisition would certainly dissolve.”

 

Teagan's posture changed, his fist clenching. He took a half step forward. He was outraged, but could say nothing uncivil to her. “I made my case at the Exalted Council and it was rejected. Have we no right to speak for our own kingdoms without being accused of violence?”

 

Alistair's eyes darted nervously between the two of them, but he didn't intervene.

 

“Is Ferelden satisfied by the Inquisition reducing its size and coming under my authority?”

 

“We have no right to challenge your word, your Perfection.”

 

“Did you attack the Inquisitor, Arl Teagan?” Leliana asked.

 

Teagan clenched his fist harder, mouth set, eyes unblinking. “No.”

 

“Do you know who did?”

 

He swallowed hard. “No.”

 

“Where were you when this occurred?”

 

“The library.”

 

Leliana sat forward, casting eyes about the hall. She had everyone enraptured. “We have two credible witnesses who say you weren't. I ask you again, Arl Teagan: Where were you?”

 

Alistair stepped forward, waving the words off with one hand. “Lel- Your Perfection, please. What is Teagan even accused of?”

 

“Lying. He wasn't in the library, which means he was somewhere else. The Inquisitor is to be my honour guard, your Majesty. I do not take this lightly.”

 

“Most Holy, I must object,” Teagan said. “Whatever witnesses dispute my whereabouts must be incorrect. I was in the library.”

 

Leliana sank back into the throne. She had hoped he would crumble under her threat of perjury, but whatever he was hiding was more important to him than that.

 

This was going to be a long afternoon.

  
  



	26. Before - Thirteen

The formalwear was bad. For Cassandra. For her morale, her resolve, and in a dozen other ways she couldn't name.

  
  


She had time to name them, resting against the railings in the vestibule of the Winter Palace, warding off any would-be conversation makers with a glare. Others might have gleaned a lot from this evening, or made political connections, or whatever people were expected to do at such events, but she was not in her element.

  
  


Seamus was far too good at this for her comfort. He was perfect in his formal uniform like he had been born into it. Whenever she looked around he was charming a new noble. The court loved him, despite his magical abilities. It was sometimes hard to remember that he was a lord by birth, raised in a Circle full of nobility and bred to be a part of a ruling class. He seemed to be taking the evening to make a point of reminding them.

  
  


She watched him whirl Grand Duchess Florianne around the floor. He knew how to dance. And, she thought miserably, he was perfect on the arm of a Grand Duchess. If romance was the business of silly ladies in gossamer dresses they had won the night. He had never seemed interested in such things before, but she had never seen him in this sort of place before. He was interested, he was at home.

  
  


“You'll save a dance for me, won't you?” he teased while checking in with her and she had to hold herself back from throwing a playful slap at his shoulder.

  
  


Being in this place made her heartsick. She had outgrown it all, it seemed to her, but still the ghosts of it lingered. To exorcise it from her life was to give up her remaining family, many of the friends she had made. If this was where Seamus was most comfortable he would find his way back to it as so many others had, he had every opportunity as Inquisitor to assume his place as aristocracy. If it came to it the strain on their friendship would be too much, she knew from past experience.

  
  


When the time came they raced to intercept Florianne, driving her out into the courtyard and it lifted the weight from Cassandra's chest.

  
  


And once it was all done, settled, the feuding parties put back into their place and the assassination attempt thwarted, she was relieved again to find Seamus as exhausted by it all as she was. He was hunched over the railing of a balcony, alone and bone-tired, trying to put some distance between himself and the festivities.

  
  


Cassandra leaned against the railing with one hip, silent until he wanted to talk.

  
  


“Let's never get involved in Orlesian politics again,” he said.

  
  


She laughed. “I can make no promises on that account.”

  
  


“At least let's keep the grand parties to a minimum.”

  
  


“I rather thought you were enjoying yourself for most of it. Or did I misread you?”

  
  


Seamus glanced over his shoulder at the ballroom. “No, you didn't misread it. I always liked these things. Until someone tries to stab you in the back. Nobles don't know how to have a party without someone ending up dead or disgraced.”

  
  


He was beaten down by the evening. It would have been good for him to indulge in a little nostalgic remembrance of his life outside the war, but the war was inescapable. The tiredness in his face, the slouch of his shoulders, it was not about needing sleep. It was needing reprieve.

  
  


“Perhaps one day we can set a new precedent at Skyhold,” she said.

  
  


He sighed heavily. “Perhaps. For now there's nothing I'd like more than to be home in my bed. Let's get going.”

  
  


He pushed off the railing and moved to go past her, but she pointedly cleared her throat.

  
  


Seamus looked back at her.

  
  


Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “I believe I was promised a dance.”

  
  


His shoulders dropped and he closed his eyes, her favourite smile spreading to wrinkle his nose and show the lines about his eyes. “You were.”

  
  


Seamus held out one hand to her, a flicker of green light beneath the skin. She took it and he pulled her close, one arm wrapped around her waist. It was intimate, too close for manners or to let her think clearly. But the tiredness was still seeping out of him so she didn't question it. He rested his chin against the crown of her hair and they swayed together, ignoring proper steps.

  
  


He let out a shaky breath, some of the tension in his body releasing, but his hands still tight against her waist and palm. Cassandra sunk into his chest, providing an anchor for some of his anxiety. Her world had been fighting and politicking for so long there was little to miss of her old life, but his wounds were still fresh.

  
  


“I used to dance with my sisters,” he said into her hair. “Whenever my parents had an event they'd try to get me leave from the Circle and I'd spend the whole night with Moira or Belle dragging me around the dancefloor.”

  
  


She had done the exact thing to Anthony when she was eight or nine years old. “I’m surprised your family aren’t fixtures at Skyhold by now. They’ve made no plans to visit?”

  
  


He huffed out a laugh. “No. My mother has an attack of the vapours if she has to travel further than the edge of her estate. I'll visit them, when things calm down. If that ever happens.”

  
  


Cassandra might have said something encouraging, another platitude about the strength of the Inquisition, or the Inquisitor. But then Seamus smiled against her hair, stepped back and twirled her with one hand. He pulled her back to his chest, clasping her hand in his own and bringing her close with a hand against her waist. Her lips clamped shut around her empty words. She remembered this as surely as he did. Stuffed into frilly dresses, treading on Anthony's toes, her uncle - usually so distant - laughing at the sight.

  
  


She hated this world, its artifice and its danger, but as with so many things it was different with Seamus. A thousand fantasies sprung to life – girlish, bordering on childish. His hand in hers, fingers squeezing. Their knees brushing as they swayed. His gaze fixed on her, so focused it could be enchanted. She was wrapped in Seamus' arms, her fingertips brushing the hair at the nape of his neck, her heart beating furiously against her ribs. This wasn't what friends did. He was so comfortable with it that it almost came across as... practised.

 

“And it was just your sisters you danced with?” she asked, trying to keep the suspicion in her voice laced with levity.

 

He gave a wry smile. “That's how I like to remember it.”

 

“I thought you would be popular at such an event.”

 

“I'm a mage. Not a serious prospect for a debutante. But a few wanted a notch on their belt, and I tried my best to avoid all that.”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “Tried your best?”

 

“What can I say? I was a young man, they were beautiful girls. It was easy enough to convince myself they'd still be interested in the morning.” He leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear, bringing them flush together. “I never took you for such a gossip, Cassandra.”

 

Cassandra bit back a moan at the feel of his lips against her ear, her mind spinning the moment to its logical conclusion, reminding her what it would feel like if he kissed her neck, pulled her in closer again. The shuddering, burning joy of it distracted her from his words for a moment too long.

 

He had been used, his trust abused, and he was scared. She had been screwing up her courage and flinching away from him in fear without thinking how brave he, the ultimate trophy, might have to be to express his interest. A hundred people had met him at Ostwick Circle and none of them had anything to say about him aside from how handsome he was. To know him, to love him was a privilege that people had frittered away.

 

She realised what she had to do. Her limbs were heavy with lead, resisting her orders, her heart pounding as she dropped his hand. She threaded her fingers through his loose hair, and met his eyes, refusing to look away no matter how much courage it took.

 

“I'm not a gossip. I want to know you, even the unpleasant parts.” She heard her voice break, but pretended she didn't.

 

“Cassandra...” Seamus cupped her face with his free hand, his thumb tracing over her lower lip and she knew she had chosen right. The gratitude flowed off him in waves, his body finally relaxed, melting against her.

 

He glanced up, back into the ballroom, remembering where they were. He came back to her, his eyes darting to her lips. She could see the decision playing out in his mind and her breath started to come in short gasps, mind knowing he couldn't do what he intended but heart begging him to ignore their surroundings.

 

Seamus squeezed his eyes shut and pulled her into a tight hug. It wasn't what she had been hoping for, but it was beautiful in its own right. He crushed her against his chest, buried his face in her neck. “Thank you.”

 

She squeezed him back, letting him take what he needed. To be his friend, his lover, his confidante, it all slipped away in the moment and she knew this man would be easily bruised if she didn't treat him with the respect he deserved. He needed her and she could not get hung up on the capacity.

 

So she took his hand again, dropped her arm against his shoulder, and started their dance again. He would have his moment of nostalgia, even if she had to play the part of sister instead of trophy-hunter.

  
  
  



	27. After - Fourteen

 

Cullen watched the sun sink over the mountains, the last rays hitting the ivy-covered walls of Skyhold. He frowned. “I asked the mage to make her sleeping draught strong. We should have a few hours.”

 

“We need to pick someone,” Leliana said. “I know the list isn't appetising, but whatever we do to them won't be as bad as what Cassandra will do if she thinks we've hit a wall.”

 

Josephine nudged the list on the table with the tip of her quill. “We have a dozen suspects left, but only four with real motive. King Alistair, Arl Teagan, Warden Commander Theodora and Captain Isabela. Also The Grand Enchanter and Morrigan, if we're being ungenerous.”

 

“Pick one, break them, get them off the list,” Leliana said. “All four are lying. If they didn't do it they know something they don't want us to know.”

 

“What do we have on Theodora?” Cullen asked.

 

“She was in a struggle on the night, I saw her uniform missing buttons.”

 

“Seamus didn't go down in a struggle. She would have had to...” He spread his hand and mimicked pressing down on a resisting figure. “... hold his mouth open. I'm not sure a woman her size could do it, but if she could it would have left a mark. He doesn't have any bruises.”

 

Leliana shook her head in warning. “She is powerful, Cullen. Moreso than you might imagine. But it's beside the point – she lied to us. She didn't lose those buttons by going to sleep early.”

 

“At this point King Alistair is the last person claiming to be in the chantry. He may be telling the truth,”Josie said.

 

Leliana scoffed. “Alistair doesn't pray. And he's the worst liar I've ever met.”

 

“To interrogate the king or the arl with more than light questioning is political suicide, the end of the Inquisition. Theodora or Isabela are the safer options.”

 

“Theodora won't start a war but she's the most dangerous. If we upset her too much she'll wring the blood out of her interrogator like a sponge.”

 

Josie raised an eyebrow. “It seems opinions of the Warden Commander have changed in these few days.”

 

Cullen raised a hand. “No one is saying that she did it.”

 

“But she's not above holding back information,” Leliana finished for him. “Which won't be wrung from her easily.”

 

“Then Isabela,” said Josie.

 

Cullen sighed. “She still claims to remember nothing, and I tend to believe that's true.”

 

“She didn't say that.” Leliana frowned. Her eyes lost focus, thinking on something like she used to do just before she announced the best plan for blackmail or assassination. “She didn't say she remembers nothing. She saw Alistair but she also said she saw a Fereldan between the great hall and the guest quarters. How did she know he was Fereldan without speaking to him?”

 

 _That's my girl_. Cullen caught her thought and ran with it. “Because he was wearing the Fereldan royal sigil.”

 

“Arl Teagan,” Josephine said. “The gardens lie between the hall and the quarters, but I doubt he was praying. What else is there?”

 

“Not much. Some old storage, I think the eluvian used to be there but it's broken now. A wine cellar, which was locked...” Cullen saw the two women looking at him expectantly. He sighed and called back toward the heavy doors of the council room. “Guards!”

 

The door creaked open, one of his men looking in. “Commander?

 

“Search all the storage surrounding the gardens, look for anything unusual, if you please.”

 

The guard nodded. “Yes, ser.”

 

Cullen turned back. “I'm not sure this is a good use of our manpower. What evidence could he have left there?”

 

Leliana shrugged. “Sometimes it's what you least expect. If it turns up nothing we'll revisit Isabela. She may remember something else if properly motivated.”

 

“Or she might lie to save her skin.”

 

“A risk we'll have to take. Our only trained interrogator isn't to come near any of the suspects if we can help it.”

 

Cullen crossed his arms. It was harder than he had thought to see her like that.

 

“I don't like to be the one to say it, but Isabela might be suspect we can...” He paused, trying to word the next part delicately.

 

Leliana raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “Sacrifice on the altar of Cassandra's rage? We can't do that.”

 

“Hawke is an ally we can afford to lose, moreso than Ferelden.”

 

“With Hawke goes Varric. He's the viscount of Kirkwall now, that's not a small loss. Not to mention one of Seamus' closest friends.”

 

“Varric and Cassandra have a complicated relationship, but he wouldn't hold her actions against Seamus, not when the man is dying. And if he doesn't wake up there's no future for the Inquisition anyway.”

 

“That's not the case,” Leliana frowned deeply. She turned away, looking out the window, arms still crossed protectively across her belly. “Our duty as friends is not just to Seamus. The Inquisition pledged itself as my honour guard and Cassandra's leadership does not change that. If he is gone she has a place in Val Royeaux, a pillar of the faith. I don't intend to let her die or disgrace herself as though her life is nothing without him.”

 

“Then what? What option do we have?”

 

“Please,” Josephine interrupted. “Tensions are running high but we are making progress.”

 

“Josie even you can't play peacekeeper on this forever,” Leliana said. “We need more than progress, we need results. Come the end of this week we need these people out of Skyhold. No one is going to confess without motivation.”

 

Josie straightened, “I have been motivating people for years without laying a hand on them. With such a short list of suspects it is reasonable to assume that all of them were sighted on the night in question. An unwilling but innocent witness can be plied with favours, concessions, even gold.”

 

It was better than nothing. It was better than offering up nothing to Cassandra when she woke and it was immeasurably better than breaking King Alistair's fingers. “So what, we offer a reward for information?”

 

“No, we would face a deluge of false information from favour-seekers. We must be more subtle.”

 

“Plant a rumour,” said Leliana.

 

“Precisely. If we have a few of our aides mention in passing to the right person that we have something to offer...”

 

“...and it's just enough to get someone holding back to find out if the rumour is true.” Cullen nodded. It was good. A plan, enough to strengthen their position going forward without starting anything unnecessary. “I'll start by – ”

 

He was cut off by the slam of a door down the hallways and the slap of boots running against stonework. The door to the war council opened without a knock and one of his guards, red-faced and panting, looked in. “Commander, come quickly.”

 

“What is it, man?”

 

“We found something in the storage, you should see for yourself.”

 

Cullen bowed his head in apology to the ladies and followed his soldier. They kept a quick pace, short of running.

 

The halls were still haunted by dozens of nobles at leisure, their muggy, relaxed day interrupted by the presence of a harried commander. He drew attention, more than he liked, but the guard's grim frown convinced him it was worth getting there quickly.

 

Three guards crowded around the entrance to the wine cellar. It had been all but boarded up, their supplies for the feast taken to the kitchens and the cellar locked to deter itinerant guests. It _had_ been locked. The padlock was smashed, not opened with a key.

 

A guard held the door and Cullen descended the dank stairs. It was relief from the heat of the evening, but dark and smelling of oak and some rancid spill from who knew when.

 

But what Leliana had been true, sometimes searching yielded what was least expected. He didn't need anyone to point out to him the pair of feet sticking out from behind one of the barrels, clad in soft black leather. As he rounded the cluster of barrels he saw the dwarf, the pool of blood, the carta robes. A dagger stuck out of her back, nondescript but good quality.

 

The carta had been here and they hadn't known. A letter lay by her side, the edge of it soaking up the blood, the seal of the royal house of Ferelden broken down the middle. Cullen sighed and crouched by her side. He teased the letter free from the blood, careful not to further stain it, then opened it and looked at the signature.

 

He closed the letter and pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

So, they were going after the king's uncle.


	28. Before - Fourteen

 

The stairs creaked, the wooden innards of the stone high tower new and yet to be broken in. Cassandra wrinkled her nose at the scent of birds which wafted from Leliana's attic. Birds and ancient paper and fresh paint made for a vile smell. Usually the soft patter of Leliana's aides could be heard above the whispers from the library, but instead it was a different murmuring.  
  
As she reached the top she saw Mother Giselle talking to Leliana, both of them body-tense and keeping their voices down. She had made a pact long ago to keep herself uninvolved with the spymaster's affairs and it had served her well as Justinia's right hand, but some instinct told her not to turn away.   
  
When the Leliana saw her she jerked her chin in her direction, alerting Mother Giselle, who turned and smiled.   
  
“If this is an inconvenient time I can return,” Cassandra said.   
  
“Not at all,” Mother Giselle said, turning to her. “I would have sought you out if you had not come. There is important news from the Revered Mothers which will interest you.”   
  
Cassandra glanced at Leliana, who nodded slightly. She took up a place beside them, leaning against Leliana's correspondence table. “What would you have of me, Mother?”   
  
“The Divine elections have stalled, no clear candidate is rising above the others.”   
  
“That's not unusual,” Cassandra said.   
  
“It isn't. But current events are leading to unusual circumstances. Between the breach and the emergence of the Inquisition the Chantry is on unstable ground. Without a Divine they may soon fall into irrelevance.”   
  
“And how do they plan to stay relevant?” Cassandra frowned. While their recent actions were often less than admirable she had no desire to see the Chantry dissolved. What had been lost could be restored.   
  
“It is an old precedent but in light of the current situation they have elected to consider people outside the Grand Clerics for the position. The right and left hands of the former Divine have come up.”   
  
It took a moment longer than it should have for Cassandra to realise what Giselle was saying. She was under consideration as the next Divine. Her first impulse was alarmed rather than flattered. The Divine was more often than not a symbolic leader, where Cassandra had for twenty years been the strong right arm that enforced that symbolic agenda. The very idea of creating her own, having people enforce it, was not a notion that sat comfortably.   
  
She looked back to Leliana who gave her a grim glance. While they were both leaders in the strictest sense of the word neither had ever headed so much as a single chantry, much less the entire Faith. Beatrix, Justinia and Seamus all had worthy agendas Cassandra had been happy to enforce, no one had ever suggested that she should set her own.   
  
“I see,” Cassandra said, her mind running too fast to formulate a proper response.   
  
“It is likely that you will both be called to the sequester in Val Royeaux for several months when the deliberations become serious,” said Mother Giselle. “I am sure many will come to question you both, to determine if you are fit to be nominated.”   
  
“Thank you,” said Leliana. “For the information, Mother.”   
  
Mother Giselle took the dismissal, bowing and turning for the stairs. Leliana and Cassandra considered each other as the footsteps retreated.   
  
The thought hung in the air, not willing to be absorbed so easily or quickly. The Divine. One of them. Perhaps. Even the possibility was difficult to digest. What would the Chantry look like under her? Under Leliana? She had thought of reform for years, but her voice one of many, tempered by the learned and experienced.   
  
“Do you think Justinia would have wanted this?” Leliana asked.   
  
Cassandra considered for a moment and spoke the only truth she knew. “Justinia wouldn't have wanted her place taken by a flock of squabbling hens.”   
  
Leliana chuckled. “That's true enough. But she never groomed either of us for leadership. She knew she wouldn't live forever, she must have thought one of the Mothers would be up to the task.”   
  
“They wouldn't be the first to disappoint her.”   
  
Cassandra looked at her hands. The caged crow beside her flapped its wings and began preening, wafting the scent of bird her way. The knuckles of her leather gloves creaked under her slight movements.   
  
To be away from the Inquisition for months was unthinkable while Corypheus reigned. To be away forever was something else. They'd never discussed the role of the Inquisition in Thedas after Corypheus was defeated. They might dissolve, or continue, or reform into something with a longer term goal as the previous Inquisition had become the Seekers.   
  
To even consider this role might mean leaving Skyhold forever.   
  
“We can't,” she said.   
  
“We can't,” Leliana agreed. “It would be too absurd.”   


“Even considering the last six months.” Oh, it was good to hear her incredulity echoed back. It was good to be united in her thinking with Leliana again.  
  
Leliana laughed. “We can't replace Justinia. There must be someone.”   
  
A weight lifted off Cassandra’s chest with Leliana’s laughter. Maybe Mother Giselle was coming to them prematurely. Maybe it wasn’t as real as it seemed. “The sequester could last for months, they'll come to a decision.”   
  
“We can't leave the Inquisition. Seamus might forgive me, but you? No, we have to stay here.”   
  
“He would forgive his bodyguard before a member of his council.”   
  
Leliana opened her mouth and shut it again. Her shoulders tensed, something trying to get out of her chest or her mouth but she held it back. She spoke, but not before hesitating again, convincing Cassandra she was about to say something ill-conceived. “You can't possibly be so oblivious, can you?”   
  
“About what?” Cassandra asked, ready to be affronted.   
  
“Seamus needs you here. You above all of us.”   
  
What a thing to put on her. Was she first to answer that Seamus needed her or that Seamus needed her more than others? She felt like a fish gaping in water. “Don't be so...”   
  
“I saw you dancing at the Winter Palace. Everyone saw it.”   
  
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Don't mistake a close friendship for intentions, Leliana.”   
  
“Andraste, you are so oblivious.”   
  
“It doesn't matter,” Cassandra cut in sharply, before Leliana could get carried away. “Don't mistake close friendship for _my_ intentions. The Inquisitor has my loyalty, but he would never ask me to turn down such a position.”   
  
“No, I don't suppose he would.” A smile spread across Leliana's face, but not a pleasant one, a mask of surprise and suspicion. “For all your talk, it's you who's not serious about him.”   
  
“I'd rather you didn't bring silly gossip into such a serious discussion.”   
  
“Seamus is my friend and to him this isn't silly.”   
  
Cassandra's heart thumped painfully in her chest. She licked her lips. “And what makes you say that?”   
  
“Don't fish, Cassandra, it doesn't become you.”   
  
“It doesn't matter,” Cassandra blurted out. She had never been close friends with Leliana but there had never been secrets between them either. Each could count on the other for honest counsel, if nothing else. “I am not a debutante waiting for a man to engage me and Seamus will have other dances.”   
  
“Are you so sure?” Leliana took up a place beside her. This was not idle gossip, she knew it. The tone was too grave, the subject matter too vital.

And the question hurt. Cassandra was surprised by the physical pain, an ache centred in her chest that radiated out, settling in her guts and hands and behind her eyes. It didn’t strike her like a blow, just made her notice that ache and wonder when it had started.

She was sure she was just one of dozens to Seamus. The alternative was too much to contemplate. That a man like him - a man of faith, strong in the ways it counted and the ways it didn't, kind, compassionate and wise - could want her in earnest. He had already given her more than she thought she would ever have, dances and gifts and starlit memories. It would be unbearable to let herself believe it could solidify into something real and then be disappointed. Better to bow out gracefully while she had the chance.

“It's not a consideration,” she said. “This is too important.”  
  
Leliana met eyes with her. “Whatever they choose, we can't forget Justinia. We have to do our best by her.”   
  
“Agreed.”   
  
“What did you come here for anyway?”   
  
Cassandra looked down at her sword. She drew it and held out the blade for Leliana. A dozen tiny scores marred the cutting edge of the blade. “I remembered you had some method of sharpening a damaged blade.”   
  
“Another dragon?”   
  
“I think he's starting a collection.”   
  
Leliana laughed and took the blade out of her hand. “I'm not sure we'll have much luck, but let's see what we can do.”   



	29. After - Fifteen

 

Cullen had weighed carefully how badly this week could go. The worst case scenario left Seamus dead and Ferelden at war with the Divine and Orlais by proxy. This was not quite that bad. Bad, but manageable, they had all decided.

 

Mia place a cup of tea on the table at his elbow and he sighed with relief. “Thank you.”

 

“So what happens now?” she asked, taking up her own seat. Lewyn sat in the corner, playing halfheartedly with a set of wooden swordsmen. The boy had still barely spoken to him but he could hardly begrudge it, a few days proximity couldn't substitute for a real family relationship.

 

“Divine Victoria is talking to the king and the arl. He'll be charged with lying to the Divine unless he gives us something useful. But the king will decide his punishment so war has been averted.”

 

Mia let out a long breath. “Thank the Maker. Maybe you can spend some real time with your family with all this out of the way.”

 

“That would be nice. Though I thought you'd want to be out of those gates the moment they open. Not many people choose to extend a hostage situation.”

 

She laughed, her smile warm and big and just what he had been missing all those years away from home. “Lewyn misses his parents, but he'll hold out a few more days. Is there any news on the Inquisitor?”

 

“None. I keep expecting him to come striding down the stairs, asking what we're all doing.”

 

“Do you think...?”

 

Cullen swirled his tea in its cup. “The rational part of me says he'll survive. The number of times he's scared us witless thinking he was dead... we ought to be used to it by now. But it's hard to be rational at a time like this.”

 

“His poor lady.”

 

“Don't remind me.”

 

“How is she taking all of this? I'd be a wreck at his bedside in her shoes.”

 

He managed half a dry chuckle. “But you wouldn't have a sword. Cassandra is the Inquisitor in Seamus' absence. It's too much to ask of her, she's no better than anyone would be in her place.”

 

“I'm sure she'll bear up,” said Mia. She didn't follow it up, it wasn't a real sentiment, just the sort of thing people said.

 

“I'm sure,” he agreed.

 

He leaned back in his chair, the steam from the tea drifting by his nose, Lewyn playing quietly in the corner, his sister ignoring the thick book by her side in favour of him, and some of the tension drained from him. It was a little glimpse at a different life, if he hadn't joined the Templars or if his time in the order had been less eventful. He might have spent his evenings with his family rather than trying to prevent war.

 

It was a chance he would have had in Val Royeaux. With the loss of Seamus' hand there was little or no fieldwork, the torch of representing the Inquisition to the world at large had been passed to the younger and stronger. There was no reason as a Commander of the Divine's honour guard that he couldn't have a family of his own. For the first time in more than a decade he wasn't cloistered, desperate or begging for scraps.

 

Whether or not that was an option anymore he couldn't say. The end of the week might bring many surprises, pleasant or unpleasant.

 

“Have you been treated well?” he asked.

 

“No one's been unkind,” said Mia. “But I don't think any of the staff are in the mood for guests.”

 

“I don't blame them. I hope you both enjoyed the banquet before all of this happened.”

 

A little of the humour returned to Mia's eyes. “I think Lewyn will be telling people for all his life that he once sat at the Inquisitor's table. Lord Trevelyan is such a man. I thought it was all just propaganda, that Andraste touched him, but when I met him I believed it.”

 

“Did you think I gave my services to someone not personally blessed by Andraste?”

 

She laughed, a little snort creeping in. “After the last one?”

 

“Oh, below the belt,” he said, but laughed with her. His good judgement - or lack thereof - had been a family conversation topic for so long he was pleased to at last be on good footing. “You'll like the others, once he wakes up and they're not out of their minds with worry. I'll introduce you to Leliana, she'll want to meet you.”

 

“You can't call the Divine 'Leliana', Cullen,” Mia scolded, scandalised.

 

“I have the privilege.”

 

“Oh, how honoured I am to have such a privileged brother.”

 

“You were being so nice to me two days ago.”

 

She grinned. “You should have enjoyed it while it lasted, baby brother.”

 

He couldn't come up with a rejoinder, but was saved by a knock on his door. It was late enough at night, it could only be Josie with news on Teagan's interrogation. Cullen set down his tea and rose from his chair, anxious for the news.

 

He opened the door into the cool night air, expecting Josie and taking a surprised step back when he was greeted with Theodora. She had the aspect of a bird of prey, preened, big-eyed and more curious than interactive. She regarded him, silent.

 

“Warden Commander,” Cullen said, then cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

 

“Good evening, Cullen.”

 

The two buttons Leliana had claimed she lost were back, sewn so perfectly he couldn't tell the difference. A glancing thought crossed his mind and he wondered if this was a new uniform or if her battle-bloodied blues looked just as perfect after cleaning.

 

“Please, come in,” he opened the door for her. She stepped past, glancing at Mia and Lewyn. “My sister, Mia Rutherford, and our nephew, Lewyn. Please meet Warden Commander Amell, one of my charges at the Fereldan Circle.”

 

Theodora bowed slightly. “A pleasure.”

 

Mia looked at her, bemused, seemingly not knowing what to say. Lewyn glanced up, dark eyes suspicious as they usually were.

 

Cullen drew her attention back. “Did you need me privately?”

 

“No. No, I suppose not.”

 

“Can I offer you tea?”

 

“I won't disturb you. I only wanted to ask about the Grand Enchantress. I understand she was questioned in relation to Morrigan.”

 

He cocked his head. “Yes. They were together when the Inquisitor was attacked. I believe they were talking about a mutual family member, Morrigan's son.”

 

Theodora's mouth set in a line, her glassy blue eyes hardening. “I see. I expected as much.”

 

“Was there something you needed to know?”

 

“No, I don't believe so. I only wanted to offer a word of warning. Morrigan and Fiona's relationship is potentially more incendiary than you might imagine. I'm not suggesting their involvement in your current problems, but if you're not careful with that knowledge you may have a new problem. Or more than one.”

 

“Would you care to elaborate?”

 

“I'd be speaking out of turn.”

 

He was surprised she was speaking at all. In whole sentences, even. “I understand. I'll ask the others to be discreet.”

 

“Thank you, Cullen.” She bowed again, hands still clasped behind her back, and left through the still-open door.

 

Cullen waited an appropriate amount of time before closing the door and sinking back into his chair. He didn't have the wherewithal to solve Seamus' mystery and keep the secrets of random dignitaries at the same time, yet he was called upon to do so and had to try.

 

Mia gazed at him, wide-eyed. “Is that what you've been dealing with the last few days?”

 

“Yes.” He rested his head in one hand.

 

Mia took his cup of tea and dumped it back into the pot. “Come on, let's get you something stronger.”

 


	30. Before - Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A playlist if you like synthpop and this story <3
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/224s4lcqooeup4vzrpscdwryi/playlist/1cFse1zCWoZ9LonuVs4NWy?si=423eiYiyRXiWNMB9NyK9yQ

Skyhold all but froze in the depth of winter, but the sun still shone strong. The cold air collected in the valleys and swept over them, even the high walls unable to keep out all but the worst of it.

 

Cassandra walked among the works in the great hall, statues of Andraste being raised from enormous blocks of grey stone. The restorations were nearing completion around the hold, piles of rubble replaced by scaffolds, the place wasn't complete but it was lived-in.

 

A tap on her shoulder and she turned around. Seamus was smiling down at her. He nodded toward the door to the undercroft and she followed, smiling to herself. This was a near-weekly occurrence, Seamus showing off whatever new toy Dagna had made for him. She ought to scold him for using precious time and resources in his apparent quest to reinvent the sword, but he was so unabashedly joyful about each new creation that she couldn't find the words.

 

“What has she made for you this time?” Her voice echoed on the stone stairs. “Because if you have another overcoat I will have the old ones sold as scrap.”

 

He laughed, booming and joyful. “You wouldn't dare.”

 

“I am going to have words with... Dagna.” She paused as they stepped out into the undercroft only to find it empty. Their armourers were always in this space, usually arguing but never found elsewhere. But today the usual clash of hammer against anvil and raised voices was gone, replaced by the gentle flow of the waterfall. 

 

She glanced at Seamus.

 

“I have a gift for you,” he said, gesturing toward the workbenches.

 

Cassandra smiled despite herself, her stomach twisting into knots. It wasn't a hard feeling anymore, not apprehensive, not paralysing. Somewhere over the last few months it had slipped from being a predator that could sneak up and pounce to being a rare treat she was allowed to enjoy as long as she didn't overindulge.

 

“Tell me it's a new sword,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “Leliana couldn't save the last one and my replacement wouldn't be fit to spread butter.”

 

“I know.”

 

He looked far too pleased with himself as he guided her over to the bench looking out over the waterfall. A cloth of blue satin was laid out over the table, the same shade that she loved to see on Seamus, that made his hair redder and his eyes bluer.

 

On it rested a longsword in pure white, the edge visibly sharp. It was a thing of beauty, expertly made of a material she couldn't identify.

 

She picked it up, testing the weight in her hand. Perfectly balanced, as she supposed she'd expected.

 

“I've never seen this metal.”

 

“It's not metal,” Seamus said, his voice so close to her ear that she stiffened, anticipating his proximity. “It's dragonbone, from the dragon in Crestwood.”

 

She had thoughts over the years of men bringing her flowers or jewellery. This wasn't what she had imagined. Not that there was anything romantic in it. She was his bodyguard, of course he wanted her to have a decent sword. A momento of their victory against the dragon, perhaps. 

 

He was standing close behind her, not so close as to touch but close enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. She wanted him to touch her, that comforting, familiar hand on her hip. Or maybe more, sliding around her waist, his breath on her neck, his arm pulling her back into him.

 

_ Stop it _ , she told her wandering mind, forcing herself back to reality. Comparing this gift to flowers didn't make it so.

 

She placed the sword back on its display. “It's beautiful.”

 

Seamus placed a hand on her hip, so close she could almost feel his body against hers. She swallowed thickly. It didn't mean... It couldn't. She couldn't read so much into him.

 

The hilt of the sword glinted in the sunlight and the made out the single word in gold filigree embossed into the hilt.  _ Promise _ .

 

“What...” She licked her lips, trying to wet her tongue enough to talk. “What promise does it represent?”

 

She turned over her shoulder, trying to gauge him, only to find the tip of her nose pressed against his. He held her an inch away from flush against him, one hand on her hip, the rest of him begging to envelop her.

 

Cassandra jerked backwards, whirling around to face him, surprised by just how close he was. She slammed against the table, sending a loud crack echoing around the cavern and wobbling the bench dangerously. She regarded him in surprise – the hazy, affectionate look in his eyes, the set of his shoulders that promised to sweep her into his arms at any moment.

 

“Do you really not know?” he asked.

 

“I... I thought I... I was imagining it.” The words spilled from her, garbled and stuttering. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, her hands too big, her body swaying into his without permission. 

 

“You weren't,” he said. Calm. Not at all the mess that she felt. “Was I? Imagining it?”

 

He had one hand against the table behind her, the other behind his back, keeping her close but allowing escape if she wanted it. He waited patiently while she stared, unable to find the words for what she wanted to say. They couldn't. Could they?

 

“You're the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor,” she said, mouth dry.

 

“That doesn't change how I feel.”

 

He ran his fingertips over her cheek, eyes so soft and full of promise. She turned into his hand, letting him cup her face in his great, glowing palm. It was intoxicating, a thing that stopped her thoughts and her breathing. 

 

Cassandra glanced at the door to the undercroft, her escape, her last chance to go back to the way things were, safe and certain. Then she looked to Seamus, beautiful, open and asking her to join him.

 

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his.

 

Seamus caught her, dragging her into him like he had been waiting for her. A hand threaded through her hair, a strong arm about her waist.

 

He led the way, soft, languorous, guiding their bodies flush together. She whimpered against his mouth, touched her tongue to his and let the dam break. Her knees turned weak underneath her, her breathing short, she let him take her weight as he kissed her.

 

_ His lips on mine speak words not voiced, a prayer. _

 

His mouth was hot, the radiance that burned under his skin spilling over hers. It was too much, too fast, she thought even as she pulled him closer, closer, fingertips digging into his shoulders. This was obscene, the way their hips fit together, his tongue in her mouth, hands fisted in clothing, and it felt so good. It was slow and indecent and going to set her alight.

 

He leaned her against the table, seeking out more pressure. Her imagination had produced only pale imitations of this - every lovely inch of him pressed against her, auburn stubble tickling her cheek, the breathy little sounds that escaped them both. Her chest ached and her heart somersaulted and this was going to kill her. 

 

“Wait,” she breathed against his lips. She couldn't think like this.

 

He stopped kissing her, his nose still pressed against hers, their breaths coming together in uneven gasps. He was still wrapped around her, the weight and strength of his body overwhelming, begging her to give in again. She wanted to. She had wanted to give in to this from the moment they met.

 

“Cassandra, don't...” he pleaded, a flash of desperation in his eyes as she began to pull away. “Don't, please.”

 

They couldn't do this. There was too much at stake. She wasn't sure. Even if they were both free to love who they chose, she couldn't just...

 

She stepped out of his arms, surprising herself with how quickly she managed to put distance between them. The cold air hit her body like a shock. “I need to think.”

 

Seamus looked at her, taking in short, ragged breaths, more dishevelled than she had ever seen him. He regarded her with dark eyes and nodded. “I'll be here when you're ready.”

 

Cassandra nodded, half of her still desperate to return to him and finish what she had started. But she couldn't rush into this headlong, she couldn't. He had to understand that she couldn't. Her feet took her backwards, away from him, to safety and somewhere she could think clearly. Somewhere she could think of something other than how it felt to kiss him.

 

She walked too fast, trying to escape, almost tripping over her own feet. At the door to the undercroft she looked back. Seamus wasn't watching her go, instead hunched over the workbench and her sword, defeated.

 

She closed the door between them.

 


	31. After - Sixteen

 

Josephine had taken the mournful duty of checking Seamus four times a day for any changes. Another euphemism. The mages would tell them if anything changed, she was to make certain that Seamus' death didn't go unheralded if Cassandra was too heartsick to send for them.

 

Cassandra had woken an hour earlier in the grey dawn, so Josephine's well-being checks were twofold. She had expected to find the two together as was the case before, but on reaching the loft she found Cassandra's chair empty.

 

Hoping the worst had not happened she hurried to Seamus' side, but found him breathing. No change. He was alone, breathing shallow, cool morning air settling over the room.

 

Josephine sighed in relief and sat on the bed next to him. She took his hand in her own and squeezed his fingers, hoping he would find some comfort from it. “Don't worry, she'll be back to you soon.”

 

She rearranged his pillows so he could lie more comfortably and brushed away the hair that had fallen in his face. It might have relieved a little pressure at this stage if he were to visibly become better or worse, but he simply lingered, indistinguishable from the first minute they found him. She took the bowl of water and sponge from the bedside, dipped the sponge to wet it and pressed it against his dry lips. He made no response, still as death as she dabbed at his mouth. The mages would do this every hour but she couldn't help thinking how thirsty he must be.

 

A little smile teased at the edges of her mouth as she thought every visitor must have had the same impulse. She imagined him waking and begging them to stop feeding him water because he felt fit to burst with it by now.

 

Cassandra should be here, attending to his care. She ought to be well awake enough to have returned to her post. Josie rose and made for the door, where two guards stood inside and two outside. They were taking no risks of the assassin coming to finish his work.

 

“Have you seen Seeker Pentaghast?” she asked the nearest guard.

 

“Yes, Ambassador, she was here not long ago.”

 

How odd, for her to have come and left again. “Where did she go?”

 

“We briefed her on the night's developments and she left, ma'am, she didn't tell us where.”

 

Until that moment Josephine had thought that feeling the blood drain from one's face was just an expression. Cassandra knew Arl Teagan had brought the carta into Skyhold. 

 

“You... told her,” she said, processing the thought by speaking it aloud.

 

And what else would they have done? No one could reasonably tell their foot soldiers to hide information from the acting Inquisitor. The shock took hold of her, coursing through her from toes to hairline, and then disappeared.

 

Josephine ran, pushing past the soldiers, trying to take stairs two at a time, trying not to break her neck by stumbling. She had no sense of her own dignity, no idea who she could call on to stop Cassandra from whatever she planned to do.

 

She burst into the hall, too late. Far too late.

 

The door to the dungeon slammed shut just as she entered, a dozen armoured feet marched up the stairs into the hall to follow whoever had just disappeared.

 

Inquisition soldiers and the Fereldan royal guard trailed behind King Alistair and Cullen, the two men arguing loudly. Oh, Maker, if Cassandra had taken Teagan into custody she was not prepared with a diplomatic solution. There might not be one.

 

“There will be consequences for this, Rutherford,” King Alistair said, as arch and strong as she had ever seen him. “You cannot march into my uncle's quarters before sun up and kidnap him. We had an arrangement.”

 

“You had an arrangement with the Divine regarding his perjury,” Cullen replied, marching alongside him, step for step. “The acting Inquisitor had yet to weigh in on his bringing the carta into our home in an attempt to undermine us.”

 

Cullen had, by some good luck or bad, chosen their diplomatic strategy for her. A united front, complete support for Cassandra. Josephine ducked toward the dungeon door and murmured to the guards that they weren't to let the king past. It might work if none of them faltered.

 

She approached the arguing pair. “Your Majesty, Commander, please lower your voices.”

 

“Lower my voice?” King Alistair stared at her, incredulous. “You've kidnapped my uncle!”

 

“Taken him into custody,” Cullen said. “You and your uncle were invited here in good faith. Guest or not you're taking a very superior tone for someone who came to the Inquisitor's wedding with such dubious intentions.”

 

“We don't even know what he was doing with the carta.”

 

“Seeker Pentaghast will find out.”

 

Alistair balled up a fist, pressing his lips together. He let out a huff of frustration. “Is that how it's going to be? We're just going to pretend the Seeker is in a listening kind of mood and she's not going to take her fiance's death out on Teagan's spongy body?”

 

As if to punctuate the point a howl of pain came from the dungeon, muffled by the wooden door. Josephine's stomach roiled at the sound of it. The king stared Cullen down but Cullen didn't budge.

 

“This is how criminals are treated, sire. Did you expect no retaliation for what your uncle did?”

 

“He claims he wasn't even with those thugs when it happened.”

 

“He was.”

 

“And how would you know that?”

 

Cullen said nothing. He was of a height with the king, both men attempting to tower over the other but instead meeting eye to eye.

 

“Your Majesty,” Josephine tried. “We have compelling witness statements that put him in the area on the night of the feast. Captain Isabela saw him. And furthermore, Lady Morrigan and the Grand Enchantress were reuniting as family in the library so he could not have been there. Seeker Pentaghast has every reason to want confession.”

 

Alistair paused, confused. “...Family?”

 

Josephine caught the warning look that Cullen shot her but could make nothing of it. “Morrigan's son is Fiona's... it's of little consequence. Your uncle has lied to you. He has lied to us. We cannot have these lies stand with so much at stake.”

 

Another of Teagan's groans of pain echoed through the door and Josephine wondered just how insincere she sounded, defending Cassandra at a time like this. She just needed the king to go. They could intervene if he would just go.

 

The King stood, one finger raised in the air, mouth open as if to speak but something working behind his eyes that kept him silent. He glanced at the guards jealously shielding the door to the dungeon, looked at the even match between his guards and the Inquisition soldiers, and turned away. “I want him back unharmed. Not a hair out of place. Don't forget that I won't be a hostage forever and get your dog back on her leash!”

 

Cullen said nothing and Josephine followed suit. They presented their united front as the king turned and stormed out of the great hall. His soldiers followed him, their eyes not leaving the Inquisition soldiers, all hands on sword hilts, separating gingerly.

 

As soon as the clank of metal footsteps had receded she and Cullen moved as one, through the dungeon doors and down the stairs. There was a single torch flickering outside one of the cells, shadows moving within.

 

Josephine clutched Cullen's arm as they pulled to a stop. Teagan wasn't tied to his chair, Cassandra must not have wanted to wait. The hilt of her white longsword was pressing his already purple and swollen knuckles against the arm of the chair. The arl's face was a mask of pain.

 

Cassandra looked up. “Cullen, Josephine. The arl and I were just talking about the carta.”

 

“You... you can't...” the arl stammered through gritted teeth.

 

Casandra twisted the hilt and he screamed. “You're going to tell me and you're going to leave nothing out.”

 

“Enough, enough,” Cullen said, a plea not an order. He approached and took Cassandra's wrist, gentle enough not to startle her. She glared at him but allowed him to remove her weapon from Teagan's mangled hand. She'd broken his fingers, the joints angry reds and purples. Josephine swallowed the nausea.

 

“He's going to talk,” Cassandra said.

 

“He is,” Cullen agreed. “Look at him, he's going to talk. Don't let him pass out.”

 

Cullen was right, the arl was about to faint dead away, his face a ghastly white, breathing hard. Just a taste of torture and he had lost all his spirit. She couldn't blame him.

 

“Josie, you don't need to be here,” Cullen said. “I'll help with the questioning, go do some damage control.”

 

She nodded, mute and grateful. Cullen would stop anything from happening, their mages could heal the hand. He would be left scared but not damaged. She kept nodding, unable to stop the rhythmic action and stepped away. She clutched her sleeves tightly in her fists as she walked away from it all, her knuckles turning white.


	32. Before - Sixteen

 

He was sad. Maker help her, she could have dealt with anger or bitterness, but even the most casual thought should have told her that was not how Seamus Trevelyan would react to rejection. He was just sad.

 

Seamus met her eyes over their makeshift war table, a map spread out between them, crowded between the necessary bodies. Those clearest blue eyes glistened like set gems, the flicker of torchlight and stark shadows of night casting all else and oily orange-black. Their soldiers shouted, argued, were talked down by Cullen and started again. She wanted to say something to him, but they hadn't seen a second's privacy since the undercroft. She was beginning to think it was intentional.

 

It should have been the easiest thing in their lives to deal with but it hung over them all like a dark cloud. At the worst possible time with a large portion of their forces mobilised against Samson and his red templars, hundreds of tents littering the desert which grew colder every minute past sundown, their little leader camp at the fore.

 

The arguing continued and Seamus excused himself, walking away from the burning torches into the starlit desert, the golden shape of him turning silver as he faded from view. Cassandra tried to keep track of the conversation going on around her, but they had long since reached the point where they were just arguing in circles. Final decisions would be made in the morning with clear eyes.

 

Seamus walked alone on the edge of the camp, looking out across the sand dunes. She flicked her eyes between the map and his silhouette. She was of no use here, she was certain of it.

 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, but no one heard her, too involved in their argument.

 

She loped after Seamus, the sand giving way under her every step. It was one of the worse marches she had been on.

 

“Seamus,” she called as she caught up to him. He turned, the tightness in his shoulders and hands stopping her in her tracks ten feet from him.

 

He smiled, but oh, it was something hollow on his face. “Cassandra, what can I do for you?”

 

“We haven't... talked.” She twisted her hands together, unthinking.

 

“It's been a busy week.”

 

The distance gaped between them. 

 

“It has.”

 

“Was there something you wanted to talk about?” He folded his arms behind his back, taking up the position she had come to know as his defensive stance. The posture of a perfect gentleman, prepared to take whatever blows came with grace.

 

Cassandra opened her mouth but no words came out. She wrung her hands. The yawning void between them should be addressed. She could fix it with just a few words, tell him she wanted the pure white sword and his heart, tell him she couldn't be with anyone until her future was more certain, or simply admit that she panicked as she always did around him. One of those had to be true.

 

Truth was something she feared, what might come bubbling out of her mouth if she didn't think this through. She wanted to talk to him about being considered as the Divine, and usually words flowed so freely between them. But she would not demand more of his understanding and consideration when she didn't know how to offer her own in return.

 

Seamus gave her a sad smile, his lips quirking into something more emotional for a split second. She must have been standing there, gaping at him, shocked by such a simple question.

 

_ Just tell him you love him! _ her mind cried at her.  _ He'll understand the rest! _

 

The future sprawled ahead of her, littered with small promises and much larger pitfalls. It threatened to engulf her, every word and gesture seemed to twist her onto some new mountainous path. Her heart beat fast for him and him alone, but to ask him to navigate it with her was too selfish and too brave.

 

“No,” she said, her stomach dropping. “Nothing in particular.”

 

He gave her a short bow. “Then I'll bid you good evening, Seeker. Try to get some rest.”

 

She let him walk away, waiting until he was long gone before she smacked herself in the forehead. She paced back and forth, nervous energy buzzing beneath her skin. She had to learn to speak to him.

 

“Idiot,” she hissed to herself. She had let his confidence carry them every step of the way, destroyed his confidence and was now surprised that she had lost him. A vain little child only wanting a toy when it was held out of her reach.

 

She raised her hands to her face and let out a sigh.

 

“That looked like it went well,” Cullen walked up beside her.

 

“Don't remind me.”

 

“Should the rest of us be worried? There are a few other things which might be a better mark for your attention.”

 

Cassandra shot him a withering glare. “Do I look like a love sick schoolgirl to you, Cullen?”

 

“Moreso than you did a few months ago, but I take your point.” He sat down in the sand, looking out over the view. He patted the sand next to him. Cassandra looked between him and the camp, then joined him, folding her legs underneath her.

 

The desert was beautiful in its own way, so perfectly still and silent. The noise from the camp didn't seem to penetrate it, the silence muffling the sounds instead of enhancing them. Adamant Fortress was a toy castle in the distance, just visible against the night sky.

 

“How bad was it?” Cullen asked.

 

“Bad.”

 

“Can you fix it before tomorrow?”

 

Cassandra shook her head, eyes fixed on her arms crossed over her knees. “No.”

 

“Do you ever think about how young we are?” Cullen asked.

 

Cassandra snorted derisively. “I feel a hundred years old. All these soldiers look like children playing with their big brothers' swords.”

 

“But you're not. This all still feels like something our fathers should be doing, or their fathers.”

 

“The torch has been passed. Our fathers are gone.”

 

Cullen sighed, gaze a thousand miles away. “If we win tomorrow we will have seriously wounded a would-be god. I never imagined it when you asked me to the Conclave.”

 

“If you had I would have been worried. But we have to win first.”

 

“We'll win. Or we'll die and the world will have to solve its own problems.”

 

She smiled, genuine this time. “I'd rather the former to the latter.”

 

“Me too. I'll be happier when we're done with it. And you'll have all the time in the world to be terrible at romance. Ow!”

 

She punched his shoulder sharply, managing to catch him beneath his pauldron. “Watch your tongue, Ferelden. I'm still stronger than you.”

 

“That was one arm-wrestling match and it was eight years ago.”

 

“A rematch then,” she said. “When we win.”

 

Cullen smiled and leaned closer. “Care to make a little wager?”

 

“That doesn't sound like appropriate behaviour for a Commander.”

 

“I won't tell if you won't.”

 

Cassandra couldn't stop the bubble of laughter in her throat from spilling out, and she dropped her head to lean against her arms. It felt good to smile. “If I win you have to do my field reports for a month.”

 

“And if I win you have to tell Varric you that read all his books twice, and loved them.”

 

Cassandra laughed into her arms, not letting the tinge of sadness take it away from her. She still had friends. She wasn't so alone as she sometimes felt. And she'd win that match easily.

 

“We have an accord.” She offered her hand and Cullen shook it, his own playful smile sitting on his mouth.

 

“Come on, then,” he turned the handshake into a helping hand and raised her to her feet. He brushed the sand out of his furs. “We have a big day tomorrow.”

 

Cassandra cast one more look over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Seamus in his self-imposed exile, then followed Cullen back to camp. He was right, more than she cared to admit hinged on the next day. They all had to be ready.


	33. After - Seventeen

 

The fight could be heard all over Skyhold, muffled, angry voices and the clash of steel on steel. The courtyard was bleached with midday sun, and Leliana was running, habit and all. She saw visions behind her eyes of the Fereldan honour guard trying to storm the dungeon, or worse, the gates.

 

A crowd had gathered on the stairs, looking down from the battlements, peering up from the square, seemingly all the guests come to spectate whatever was going on. Leliana pushed through the flock of people, the crowd parting for her as each saw the Divine come to intervene.

 

Inquisition guards held back, swords drawn, each glancing at others, none wanting to be the first to intervene.

 

“You knew!” Alistair lunged at Theodora. She parried the hit with her great sword, the blow sending a shower of sparks cascading over her.

 

Leliana stood in place, unsure what to do. She couldn’t tell what was going on. She’d never seen them fight, didn’t know what had caused it, didn’t know how much she had missed or how long they had argued before swords were drawn. 

 

The King and Warden Commander circled each other. Teddy didn’t seem to be using her magic and Alistair was by far the better swordsman. This was going to end with the the Warden Commander skewered on his longsword.

 

“Yes, I knew,” Theodora said, defiant, raising her blade and preparing to strike. Without magic it was a clumsy swipe, only enough to make Alistair step back. But there was a malice to it. An intent. “Are we doing this? Is this your solution?”

 

They both lunged forward, their swords breaking the blows against each other, but Theodora was not strong enough to hold him off. Their swords skated, the tip of his blade caught her shoulder and came free with a spray of blood. She let out a cry and plastered one hand over the wound.

 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he demanded.

 

Theodora rose back straight and removed her hand from her shoulder. The wound was gone, her healing magic strong as ever. She put one hand behind her back and took up a fencing pose, the tip of her greatsword touching the ground. “No.”

 

“You're a damned demon, woman. You're not who you used to be.”

 

“And what would you have done if you knew?” Theodora lowered her eyes dangerously. She lunged without warning, greatsword back in both hands and chopping down like she was making firewood. Alistair darted out of the way and she swung again. “How many people do you want to have to pretend with?”

 

Leliana stepped forward. They were embarrassing themselves. Whatever had happened between them they didn't need this kind of audience.

 

“That wasn't your choice to make!” The crowd gasped as one of the hits connected, Alistair slamming his elbow into Theodora's face, sending her stumbling back.

 

Alistair paused and Leliana saw her moment. He didn't really want to hurt her.

 

“Enough,” she stepped between them. “That's enough.”

 

Theodora rolled her neck and wiped away a tickle of blood and spit from her chin. A bright red patch on her cheekbone would turn purple soon.

 

“Get out of the way, Leliana,” Alistair said, readying his sword again.

 

A bluff, and she called it. “This isn't the time or the place. I don't care what's happened.”

 

She had his attention but he glanced at Theodora, who had chosen that moment to start fixing her hair. Was she provoking him? Leliana hardly knew anymore. She placed a hand on Alistair's shoulder and attempted to lead him away. He let her turn him and took a few steps, shaking his head, then turned back to Theodora.

 

“You are a spiteful witch,” he hissed. “And I'm done with you.”

 

Theodora continued fixing her hair, only meeting his eyes for a moment.

 

“Come on,” Leliana turned him again, guiding him toward the keep. “Come inside, Alistair.”

 

Leliana cast a judgemental glare around at the crowd, her encouragement beginning to disperse them. Alistair had always been too emotional for kingship. He'd been doing well, she'd kept an eye on him, but outbursts were inevitable she supposed. He was fuming next to her, hands clenched, shaking his head and muttering to himself as she led him indoors.

 

Leliana had rarely seen him lose his temper, and his uncle's imprisonment was no doubt keeping his mood low, but she'd never imagined he would attack Theodora. She led him into the chantry and stepped back from him, letting him boil and pace.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

 

Alistair looked up at her, his mouth a miserable line, puppy dog eyes so wounded. “I don't think I can.”

 

Leliana took her headdress off and tossed it on one of the pews. “How about now? You can't think I'm being political. I care about you, Alistair.”

 

“I've heard that before.” He sunk down onto a pew, his head in his hands. “I'm a damned fool. Who would ever put a crown on me? Oh, of course, I remember now.”

 

“She has her moments, but she's not so terrible.”

 

“My mother's still alive.” His voice dropped to a little boy's tremble. “She knew. She knew and she just stayed silent.”

 

“Your mother? How is that possible, everyone said...”

 

“I didn't really add it up, until this morning. I know why no one told me. She's an elf and a mage, the two unforgivable sins.”

 

Leliana dropped to the pew beside him. “Fiona.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She was at a loss for words. Nothing seemed a big enough comfort for this moment. Another casualty, another wound she couldn't heal. Maybe nothing could heal it. There was too much grief in their lives.

 

“Did we do this?” she asked.

 

Alistair sniffed and raised his face from his hands, clasping them between his knees instead. “Your ambassador is a blabbermouth.”

 

“No, she's not.”

 

“She was this morning.”

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

Alistair shrugged helplessly. His mouth quirked downwards, tears threatening. “I don't know. I'm such an idiot. She was right, now that I know this I don't know what to do with it.”

 

“We'll figure it out.” Leliana held out her hand and he took it, squeezing. She let him sit until his breathing had evened out and he was back in control of himself. Ten years ago they were a lay sister and a bastard prince, and it was easy to slip back into the roles, just friends in a little chapel.

 

“I want to leave, Leliana, I want to take Teagan and go home. I've had enough.”

 

Leliana sighed. “I'd let you go if it were up to me. But Cassandra is the Inquisitor now and it's her hold. It's a stern course of action, but it's hers to take.”

 

“Is Teagan..?”

 

“Shaken, but unharmed. He was conspiring with the carta to drive the Inquisition out of Caer Brannoch in return for some favours.”

 

Alistair's hand tensed in her own. “What will the Seeker do with him?”

 

“Nothing, I wouldn't think. If he didn't touch Seamus she doesn't care right now.”

 

“How bad is it, Leliana? Really? Are any of us going to keep our heads on our shoulders?”

 

She had no easy answer for that. If Seamus died it would be mutiny. None of Seamus' inner circle would let Cassandra turn herself into a murderer, they'd overthrow her first. But to admit to a vulnerable man that his hostess might go far enough to warrant a coup wouldn't help him.

 

“You’re safe,” she settled on. “Whatever happens I promise you're safe. She may seem like a tyrant right now, but she's not.”

 

“Things won't be the same after this, for any of you,” he said, not unkindly.

 

“I just want it to be over. I wish you'd tell us where you were that night.”

 

Alistair started to laugh, a pitiful, self-effacing thing. “Don't even make me think it. Don't even... I... You know I didn't do it, don't you? You, at least?”

 

She smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I know.”


	34. Before - Seventeen

'A rod for thine own back,' her uncle used to say whenever she had created a problem for herself. He would sneer it down his nose, using the phrase to mean 'berate yourself and don't bother me about it.' The phrase popped into Cassandra's head at unwelcome times, demanding self flagellation for her mistakes.

 

And now she had indeed created a rod for her own back, forcing Seamus to an arms length only to discover that she needed his help.

 

She had to admit defeat, she knew that much, and the sooner the better so she could put it behind her. He made it easy enough, lingering after the war council as the others moved out to fulfil their orders. His habit of getting lost in thought looking across the mountains had been one of those things she initially found absurd and enraging. He absently posed himself in a window frame, natural light pooling on his face and big body artfully positioned. What had made her hot with rage months ago now infuriated her in another way. He didn't have to look so appealing at all times, he might have given her a moment to rest.

 

She hung back from the others, preparing to swallow her pride. The very thought of humbling herself before him made her body rebel, but she pushed it down. This was too important. So she swallowed down the tightening in her throat, clasped her hands together and let the heavy door shut behind her.

 

Seamus saw her, just a glance from the corner of his eye, but said nothing. So he was going to make this difficult. It hardly mattered, this was going to be mortifying regardless of his level of cooperation.

 

“I... need your help,” she began, clenching her hands together tighter. “I would not ask except I am desperate.”

 

He turned to face her, eyes wide and unsure.

 

She had only promised him she would think. It hadn't even been a promise. And it wasn't her fault that every time she tried to think her thoughts wound into tight circles and went nowhere. She could approach from any angle and the simple truths still remained. She might be Divine in six months time, bound to chastity. If she wasn't, she would rebuild the Seekers, her work never keeping her in one place long enough to have a companion. She was leaving; no matter the fate of the Inquisition, it wouldn't include her. She was called to other purpose.

 

It was only unfortunate that they were the ones hurt by that.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “I know I've no right to ask. It isn't just for me. I know people have gone missing, they are the ones who need your help.”

 

His caution turned to surprise. “Cass-”

 

“And I know the last thing you must want right now is to find more reasons to be around me, but I know that you won't leave innocent people to die, I just know it.”

 

“Cass-”

 

“And if you have to investigate this without me I would understand, although I would prefer it if –”

 

“ _ Cassandra _ .” He grabbed her clenched hands in one big paw, surprising her into silence. He stared at her, bewildered. “Have I behaved that badly?”

 

She stared back at him. “What?”

 

He sighed and stepped away from her, hands gesturing like he was trying to physically grab the words he wanted out of the air. “Of course I'll help you. I'm sorry I made you doubt that.”

 

Cassandra felt her face crumple and couldn't stop it. Of course he'd help her. Unlike her he hadn't used their time apart to think himself into emotional wreckage. Even if he had he would never refuse to help. It wasn't him. She spent so much time underestimating this man she should call it a hobby.

 

“I shouldn't have doubted you,” she said. “I'm not sure where we stand, anymore.”

 

He sat down, putting the table between them. “I'm not either. But I said I would be here when you were ready. If this is what you're ready for, then I'm here.”

 

She laughed without humour. “Why must you be like this? Can't you shout? Can't you call me a tease? Cold hearted? Attention seeking or power grabbing?”

 

“Would that... make you feel better?”

 

“ _ Yes! _ ”

 

Yes, it would make her feel better, ease all of her wounds. If he would just finally let the other shoe drop, let her see him callous, mean, selfish. If he could just be like all the men she had met before, even for a few seconds it would make her life easier. She could mourn what they might have had but know it was done.

 

He was confused. “I don't... Cassandra, please be reasonable.”

 

_ No _ , she nearly spat out the word, but stopped herself. Provoking him into a fight would be childish and unfair. And she wasn't sure she could.

 

She instead she sat across the table from him, slumping into the chair. “I don't see how you can be so relaxed about all of this. It makes me feel like a six-year-old throwing a tantrum.”

 

“I'm not relaxed,” he said, too quickly. “I'm not relaxed. I'm hurting. I'm hurt and... embarrassed, and so confused. But not angry.”

 

The words were like a knife to her gut. “You have every right to be.”

 

His hands jerked forward, an involuntary gesture, forgetting the space of the table separated them and he could not reach her. “You don't have to apologise for needing time. Or for wanting something different to what I want. I care about you. That doesn't hinge on anything.”

 

A lump rose in Cassandra's throat. “Stop it. Stop being so... so...”

 

She grasped for the word, everything that sprang to mind sounding worse than the option before. Stop being so kind. So reasonable. So loving.

 

“I won't,” he said quietly, firmly.

 

Cassandra stared at her hands on the table. He wouldn't. She could shout and insult, strike him with her fists, and he would take it all. If she wanted to break this man's heart she would have to do it without a scapegoat. Why couldn't she just do it? Explain to him that any joy they had would be fleeting? Or if she wasn't sure, why couldn't she give in to him? Either one would put her out of her misery.

 

“The Seekers are missing,” she said. “I can't find a trace of them. If you could have Leliana or Josephine look into it...”

 

“I will,” Seamus said. “We'll figure this out.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

He looked at the ceiling, hands working, searching for words again. “Cassandra, whatever happens between us you'll never lose my friendship. I need you to believe that. Even if you become the Divine.”

 

“You knew.” The words came out a plea and an accusation. She had spent so long stuck inside her own head, trying to work through what it all meant and he had known all along. Mother Giselle would have asked him, Leliana would have sought his counsel, Cassandra herself was the only one stubborn enough to exclude him. 

 

He smiled gently. “Of course I knew.”

 

“And what does that mean to you?”  _ For us? _

 

“You would make the perfect Divine. I want that for you. I want you to have everything you want.”

 

“And that's what you want?” She asked him the difficult question so she wouldn't have to think of her own answer for it.

 

He looked at her over his clasped hands, soft and wounded and understanding all at once. 

 

“No.” 

 

The smallest break in his voice betrayed him. Her gut clenched in sympathy, in admiration. How could he just let himself be so honest, even when afraid? Even when he knew she was wound in knots and could give him nothing in return? How could he be so sure?

 

She wanted to reach out and take his hands, offer any kind of comfort. He knew his answer, unyielding in his certainty, his faith. She had no such solid ground to stand upon but couldn’t let him believe he was unwelcome in her life. She couldn’t make him unwelcome. How, then, to let him know that he was still her friend as well, whatever the outcome?

 

“I don’t regret what happened. I don’t...” she said, throat tight. His eyes were on her, suddenly burning. “You overwhelm me. I don’t think straight when I’m with you.”

 

The words lifted a weight from her chest, honesty flowing so easily from her and taking the tension with it. His eyes searched her face, confusion followed by relief followed by glances at her hands, her mouth. 

 

The air between them was still heavy, but not so heavy as it had been. Perhaps there was merit to his unashamed honesty. And for all her worries, her heart grew lighter as he smiled. 

 

“So,” he said, finally relaxing back. “Tell me what you’d do as Divine.”

  
  



	35. After - Eighteen

Varric had enough worries. All the obvious stuff, and whatever was brewing between the Hawke cousins. He thought they hated each other, or at least weren’t big fans, but somehow they made their way back to the bar each night. On night three they fell into the same hip-raised, elbows to the bar posture before saying a word to each other.

 

“I saw your little tiff with the king,” Hawke said.

 

Theodora shrugged and pushed a drink toward her. Varric hauled himself up onto a stool beside them. He enjoyed spending time with Lorelai, but this week he enjoyed keeping her out of trouble even more.

 

“Evening, Commander,” he offered.

 

“Evening,” she said.

 

Hawke sipped her drink. “He’s awfully sweet. How did you convince him to draw his sword?”

 

“I’m talented.”

 

“No, really.” Hawke turned around, leaning against the bar so she could better direct her attention to her cousin. “I have to know.”

 

“Hawke...” Varric cautioned. Their days were easy, like the best days in Kirkwall. Set up straw targets, suggest he was the better marksman and enjoy hours of fun together. The evenings had always been her weakness.

 

“I’m entitled to the family gossip,” Hawke said. “And whatever techniques can enrage a king into drawing his blade.”

 

Theodora smiled her spiteful, unpleasant smile, it bloomed over her face slowly like black mould. “You couldn’t.”

 

“Is that a challenge?”

 

“If you want it to be.”

 

Varric sighed into his mug. “Can the two of you leave the poor man alone? We’re all under enough pressure.”

 

“Don’t worry yourself, Tethras. She couldn’t.”

 

“I don’t want her trying.”

 

Hawke laughed, falling one more step into pattern with Amell. Two world-shakers who desperately needed a babysitter. The Warden kept her ghoulish smile, but Varric could see a little strain around her eyes. Her thumb rubbed a circle in the side of her cup, breaking her usual statue stillness.

 

“You’re not curious, Varric?” Hawke asked.

 

“I don’t think the Warden Commander wants to indulge our curiosity.”

 

That hadn’t been meant to get a reaction, but Theodora straightened and looked at him like he’d bet her ten gold she wouldn’t tell. “It’s no secret. It’s not my secret. Alistair is the one who made it a spectacle, I was just trying to mind my business.”

 

Varric baulked. Her whole face changed in an instant, like an actor who had taken off her mask. The hawkish indifference melted into something animated in the space of a heartbeat. “Whoa, now, don’t take offence.”

 

“I’m not offended, this whole thing is stupid. As if it’s my fault.” She downed her drink in one long gulp, throat working, eyes closed. She slammed the empty cup on the bar. “Everyone’s got to spill some damned secret and then I’m in trouble for who I tell or don’t tell. So fuck me, I guess.”

 

“You doing alright there, cous?” Hawke asked.

 

“I’m fine. I’m just pissed off that every bastard I talk to for the next ten years is going to know about today. I’ll have to hear the same dumb questions again and again.”

 

It pissed her off, Varric believed that part, and he’d say Hawke took it at face value. But there was only one thing that could make a statue gesticulate and a gentle man attack someone in a public square. This wasn’t just pissed off, it was jilted.

 

“So... you two were close during the Blight?” he tried. He’d aimed for casual, but the narrow of her eyes told him he had missed the mark. He opened his mouth to back off, not wanting this woman pissed at him, but Hawke caught his meaning and he couldn’t shut her up.

 

“Maker, really? A king and a blood mage?”

 

“Oh, please,” Theodora said with an exaggerated eye roll. “He wasn’t a king, I wasn’t a blood mage. We were a couple of dumb kids about to die. It’s history.”

 

The kind of history they sanitised when they wrote it into books, just in case someone accused the King of Ferelden of keeping a blood mage consort, bending to her demonic whims, being her puppet. This was the kind of thing an enemy could use to topple a monarchy. And from the sour look on Theodora’s face, she wasn’t pleased he had guessed it.

 

“History,” he agreed. “So you’ve had a crappy day, huh?”

 

“No use crying over old flames,” Hawke said. “And don’t we all know it? Sounds like you’re better off without him.”

 

Theodora laughed, amused or maybe bitter. Somewhere on that spectrum. “You two really are a good sort, aren’t you?”

 

“You don’t have to sound so unhappy about it.”

 

“I’ve met a lot of good sorts.” She cleared her throat and straightened, settling back into her frown. The bartender slid her a new drink, and she hunched over it.

 

Varric sipped at his own drink, trying to puzzle out the Warden Commander. He knew as much about her as anyone. Mage from the Fereldan Circle, wielded a sword with her magic, a couple hundred heroic deeds under her belt. But then what? Leliana talked about her sometimes. She’d been a kid when she was conscripted. She’d kept to herself since.

 

Maybe she’d just snapped. Everyone tried to figure her out and failed, maybe that’s because there was no sense to be found underneath it all. He’d met enough soldiers from the Blight or the mage rebellion who had... lost it. Curled in on themselves. Never opened up again. He’d met enough of them and they were dangerous. Timid little things until they felt threatened or triggered, then they were capable of anything.

 

Maybe capable of attempting to murder their host on the evening of his wedding.

 

“What’s with the long faces?” Isabela strode up to them. She angled herself between Hawke’s legs and sat on one of her thighs. “Evening, dear.”

 

“You’re late, you’ve missed scandalous gossip,” Hawke said.

 

“You’ll forgive me.” Isabela reached into a pouch on her belt and produced a small brown bottle. “Jonnen told me where the stash was.”

 

“Jonnen?”

 

“Timmy Two-Shoes.”

 

“Oh, him.” Hawke smiled, looked at the bottle, back to Isabela, and her face fell to alarm a second after Varric’s did. Essence of laurel. A whole bottle of it.

 

“Andraste’s tits, Isabela,” Varric said. “You can’t be that stupid.”

 

“Who says it’s stupid?” Isabela asked, affronted. “He’s not using it. Better here for us than poured down a drain.”

 

Great, now they were stealing. Stealing drugs. From Cassandra. When she was already looking to take heads. “You haven’t been cleared as a suspect, what do you think the Seeker’s going to do if she finds you with that?”

 

“I’ll hang onto it for you,” Hawke said, nuzzling Isabela’s neck. “This was dumb, but now you have it...”

 

“Will you join us, Teddy?”

 

_ Please don’t let them be calling her Teddy. _

 

Theodora raised an eyebrow and held up one hand pulsing with black energy. She wiggled the hand. “No.”

 

Isabela shrugged. “More for us.”

 

And before anyone could stop her, she unstopped the bottle and dropped two beads of the fluid onto her tongue. Undiluted.

 

Varric froze, his mind and body. Some stupid instinct like if he didn’t move that would unhappen. His hands were stretched towards her, as were Hawke’s and Theodora’s, all of them with dumb, instant-panic expressions frozen on their faces. The surrounding room was noisy but their silence might as well have echoed. All three of them staring in horror at Isabela’s self-satisfied grin.

 

“What?” Isabela asked.

 

The word broke the spell and Theodora grabbed a pitcher of water from the bar. “Open her mouth, now.”

 

“I... what-” Isabela’s words were cut short as her lover dipped her back and held her jaw in one hand. Varric held back her hair and stopped one of her hands from trying to interfere. The three of them attempted to waterboard the poison out of Isabela’s mouth. Isabela squeaked in anger and indignation, coughed up the water, surprised and frightened. But they held the struggling woman until the whole pitcher had gone either down her throat or on the floor.

 

Theodora put the pitcher back on the bar and Hawke hugged Isabela close.

 

“Make her throw up,” Theodora said.

 

Hawke gave her a shocked nod and supported Isabela toward the door. How these two survived on their own was a mystery. They were both shaken and confused, their night turned so quickly it had made them wobbly. Varric watched them go. He’d check on them in five minutes, see if he needed to call a healer and come up with an amazing excuse.

 

“Well,” Varric said, half to himself. “There’s one suspect off my list, at least.”

  
  



	36. Before - Eighteen

The tome of the Lord Seeker was ancient and heavy, weighed down by thick metal bindings. Cassandra held it braced against her so she could read standing up, the warm candlelight in the command hall occasionally passing an inconvenient shadow over the pages. This book and all it represented had been the codex she lived by, the rules, the ethics, the moral guidance Daniel and the others had died by. It was in some ways the last solid proof the Seekers had existed. 

 

Seamus stood across the hall, leaning on his own wall, reading his own book. A great space, the columns, the chairs and table separated them. It seemed only right to have him here for this. This was the legacy of the last Inquisition, and no one was more level-headed and fair with mage rights.

 

He leaned against the railing of the balcony, every so often standing up and repositioning himself a bit further down, or back the other way. Cassandra mirrored him without meaning to, shifting her position on the far wall, leaning to use less strained muscles when she could. A dance they hadn't rehearsed, back and forth.

 

It was comforting to have him there, even a silent presence, while she waded through those grotesque secrets of her order. This book passed from the first Inquisitor through the hands of every Lord Seeker and now to her. She could let it rot in a library somewhere. She should let it rot. They had lost their way, as all organisations were doomed to do eventually.

 

Seamus shifted, wandering absentmindedly to a position nearer to her. She followed him with her eyes and said nothing. She didn't expect him to understand the secrets the Seekers had kept, she didn't truly understand them herself. He didn't know it was her Lord Seeker who had started the mage rebellion, that they had withheld the cure for tranquillity. He didn't know her order had stuck a knife in his back.

 

Cassandra took a few steps away from him and rested her weight on her other leg. She turned another page, but her mind had wandered. This book might be easiest to digest in portions. She let it drop into the crook of her elbow, resting heavy in her arms against her hips.

 

“You know of the rite of tranquillity,” she said.

 

Seamus looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

 

“We knew how to reverse it. We've always known.”

 

“And by 'we' you mean...?” He closed his book and backed away, leaning back against the railing and giving her his full attention.

 

“Every Lord Seeker. The last, before Lucius, had to cover up the truth. There were deaths.” She closed the book and stepped forward to let it thud inelegant to the table surface, then leaned against one of the pillars, the table between her and Seamus.

 

“That can't be a shock to you, every organisation has some corruption in it. Especially one so old.”

 

“No less a shock than if you confessed to blood magic.”

 

Seamus looked away, bit his tongue, then met her eyes again. “I'm sorry. This must be difficult for you.”

 

“I had intended to rebuild the Seekers, when all of this was over. Now I'm not sure that we deserve rebuilding. We lost our way.” And where did that leave her? Divine or purposeless. She could not count on the sunburst throne as though it were a certainty, her name was only being spoken, no decision made.

 

Seamus tossed his book down beside hers and mirrored her position against the opposing pillar. He let out a long breath through pursed lips, grappling with it as she was. “What do you want the Seekers to be?”

 

“What they were designed to be: Seekers of Truth. We were supposed to be a moderating influence, an impartial party. If we had been more concerned with our duty and less concerned with our power this war would never have happened.”

 

“You keep saying 'we'.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

He smiled at her, his soft, peacekeeping smile. “Cassandra, when did you ever neglect your duty?”

 

“I was part of that order,” she said. “I must take responsibility.”

 

“You don't have to take everyone's mistakes for your own. Orders become corrupt. Even the best ones.”

 

“Do you include the Inquisition in that? Will we repeat history?”

 

Seamus scratched his chin and finally sat down, the table still between them. He rested his clasped hands on the table. “You're asking the tough questions tonight, aren't you?”

 

“If you don't wish to answer I won't force you.”

 

He shrugged. “Yes. We'll become corrupted. In ten years or a thousand. And I hope, when that happens, we'll have some headstrong, incorruptible adherent to breathe new life into us.”

 

“Headstrong?” Cassandra couldn't help feigning a little offence.

 

“Yeah. You know, stubborn. A real ball-buster.”

 

“This is a serious discussion,” she said, trying to smother her widening smile behind one hand.

 

“And really mean sometimes. Just sometimes.”

 

Cassandra took a long step toward him, on instinct about to shove at his shoulder until she realised that it would only give him more fodder. She settled against the table instead, staring him down across the length of it. “I am not mean.”

 

“Just sometimes,” he repeated, a boyish smile playing at his lips. “Or maybe this headstrong, wilful, aggravating ballbreaker – ”

 

“Aggravating?”

 

“– won't rebuild us at all.” Seamus rose from his chair and joined her, hopping up to sit on the table, facing her. “Maybe she'll take all that energy and make something new. Something better.”

 

He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to see every little wrinkle when he smiled. Close enough to distract her from her serious thoughts. Sometimes he might as well have punched her in the chest for the effect he had on her. He was trying to make her laugh, to take the edge off her fear of past and future. And it was working.

 

“Even being all that?” she asked, a tremor creeping into her voice.

 

Seamus' voice dropped to a husky whisper. “She couldn't do it any other way.”

 

Cassandra felt the heat in her cheeks and scoffed. “You're absurd.”

 

“You're mean.”

 

“What are you going to do once Corypheus is defeated?”

 

Seamus shrugged. “There's still a lot of peace to keep. And I know you're disheartened right now, but I think the last Inquisition did some good in this world. I want you here while I figure it out.”

 

She laughed into her own hand, overwhelmed by him. She wanted to take him up on his offer, to sink into another of his long, slow, obscene kisses. She wanted it more than she had thought possible. He offered more than just a position, right hand or consort. It was a chance to forge her own path, with his respect, consideration and love. A real home for the first time since Anthony died.

 

But she couldn't accept his offer just based on what it would win her. And she couldn't have him just to lose him.

 

“I can't stay,” she said. “Not forever.”

 

Seamus pulled her down to press a kiss against her temple, his big hand cradling her face, the sweet smell of him intense. She had a feeling that the gesture was half affection and half so that she couldn't see his face. “Then you'll be the best of the Lord Seekers.”

 

He let her go quickly, while she was still reeling from the contact. The brief press of his lips against her skin, his hands on her and it was gone again. She gasped at the loss, a little whimper escaping her lips.

 

Andraste, let her make the right choice. It already killed her to think of losing him. If she gave in, took all he had to offer, could she ever separate herself? The pain would break her.

 

The image sprung to her mind fully formed. A version of herself that acquiesced, become his lover and his right hand, spent her nights in languorous lovemaking and her days hand in hand with him, and was then called to the Divine council and lost him forever. She had been her own woman all her life, she could not sit on the sunburst throne and think only of him.

 

And what was her other option? To refuse to be considered as Divine? A reckless, selfish thing to even think about. Yet right, if it was unavoidable.

 

Cassandra leaned her forehead against Seamus' shoulder, holding a groan deep in her chest. He complicated things. Without meaning to, sometimes, and with full intention at others. This shouldn't even be a decision. She would be Divine if elected and if not she would rebuild the Seekers. It was obvious, it was right. There should be no competition.

 

But he was beside her, letting her take comfort in him. She pretended the joy of it wasn't unusual. That she might find this kind of safety and comfort in anyone, complete acceptance. Or that she didn't need it. 


	37. After - Nineteen

Josephine found the loft dark, the windows open to let in the cool air. The moon was bright and full, casting enough light to show a silver outline of Cassandra reclining on the bed. She leaned over Seamus, watching his face.

 

Cullen had assured her that with some sleep Cassandra would be better. Josephine didn't want to question the commander, but to her it seemed that he had only added energy to Cassandra's mania. Where she had been dull and listless she was now radiating a desperate energy.

 

Josephine didn't talk, she took the chair next to the bed and watched Seamus as well. No change.

 

“Three days,” Cassandra said. “That was what the mage said.”

 

“They've been known to be wrong, from time to time.”

 

“Do you see any difference?”

 

She didn't. “It's hard to tell, in the light.”

 

“No it isn't. I keep counting his breaths. I know the rhythm by heart now.”

 

Josie was at a loss. What could she say? It wasn't healthy for Cassandra to be here, obsessing, but she couldn't justify advising her to leave. Let her count the breaths, they might be all she had left of him.

 

“He wants to stay with you,” Josie said before the air could grow too thick between them. “He's fighting.”

 

“No he's not. If he were fighting he would be winning. He's separated from his body, sent to the Fade by that poison.”

 

Josie decided on a different tactic. “He used to sit on this bed, in the late nights, and rant and rave. He'd let me take his desk to work and he'd take a cup of wine and... you know how he gets when he's frustrated, turning to theatrical complaining.”

 

A terrible, painful laugh slipped Cassandra's lips. For a moment Josephine thought the dam might finally burst and she would cry, but she closed her eyes and nodded. “I forget that you were his friend.”

 

“I _am_ his friend. I still come up here some nights to work in his company. But do you remember those months where things were so uncertain between you two? I was sad for you, of course, but he never provided such entertainment. He'd get this little...” Josie gestured to her face. “... crease between his eyebrows and throw his hands in the air.”

 

Cassandra laughed her wretched laugh again. “I remember.”

 

“And he'd say: 'I'm just going to forget her. She's not interested, I'm just being an idiot.'” Josephine laughed around her tightening throat, remembering the show he'd put on. “'I'm just going to stop thinking about her.' He was such a bad liar. Even to himself.”

 

Cassandra didn't look away from his face, an agonised smile sitting on her lips, like she could see him animate again. It would be a bodily relief to see him press his hands to his face and declare that he was never looking at another woman again although he simply could not stop looking for his Cassandra. That love was not for him although no man had ever been so made for love. He had always finished with a self-deprecating smile and thanked her for listening.

 

Now his lovely face was slack, hair plastered to his face from sweat, eyes closed.

 

Josephine reached out and took Cassandra's hand in hers. The Seeker looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. The enormity of it all threatened to swallow them. They had fought dragons and demons and demigods, but facing Seamus' endless sleep there was no weapon they could wield, nothing to say or do which stood any chance of fighting this enemy.

 

This place was haunted. The smiling, laughing, ranting, listening, giving ghost of Seamus lived here.

 

One afternoon just after they had come to Skyhold she had interrupted the two of them on the balcony, realising too late that they had been leaning in for their first kiss. He had recovered seamlessly, so smooth that she almost believed she had misinterpreted. Almost. She had to resist exclaiming in exasperation that he should not have been so calm, he would give Cassandra the wrong impression. Given how long it had taken them after that she kicked herself for her intrusion. If she had only waited, maybe their wedding would have been sooner. Maybe this wouldn't have happened.

 

“He'd make a stupid joke, if he could,” Josie said.

 

“I imagine...” Cassandra's voice broke and she paused. “I imagine he'd joke about being late to his own wedding.”

 

“He will make that joke. We'll see to it. And it will be a terrible joke.”

 

“How will we see to it, Josephine? I can't do anything. If the Maker would set a challenge in front of me I would overcome it but there's nothing to be done. It's in His hands now.”

 

“We're doing everything we can.” She squeezed Cassandra's hand. She couldn't remember another time she had allowed such physical contact. “It must feel like we're standing still but we have discovered so much, narrowed down our suspects to only a handful.”

 

Cassandra sniffed and pulled away, the softness and pain in her face fading into the businesslike acting Inquisitor with all their fates in her hands. She blinked back whatever had been brewing inside her.

 

“Arl Teagan is innocent,” she said. “I have no proof, his only alibi is his underhanded carta meeting. But he's innocent.”

 

“I would trust your instincts,” said Josephine. “Do you think the carta could have..?”

 

“Yes. But they didn't. We are no friend to them, but far from their enemy. Seamus didn't understand dwarven politics, he didn't try to. So he didn't interfere. They would not have taken the chance on who might take his place.”

 

“Then you don't suspect the Arl?”

 

Cassandra looked back at Seamus, threatening to become hypnotised by his face once more. “I should kill him regardless.”

 

“If he's innocent...”

 

“He lied to us, invited the carta into our home. At best he confused matters.”

 

Josephine frowned. “Please don't. He wouldn't want you to.”

 

“I won't. No need to give Cullen a reason to depose me.”

 

Josie hadn't imagined that Cassandra had been cogent enough to intuit Cullen's plans. She had seemed wrapped up enough in her vengeance for their design to go unnoticed. She should have known better. “No one is trying to undermine you.”

 

“I know.”

 

“We all want justice as much as you do.”

 

“You'll let me have it,” Cassandra said. “One head, I imagine. If the head isn't too important.”

 

Josie took a deep breath. This grief was anaesthetising, a riptide pulling Cassandra away from them. She had been prepared for this, of course, but she had imagined it would render Cassandra docile and useless. There was little that could have prepared her for a cold, calculating Seeker willing and able to act while still in the throes of her heartbreak.

 

She had to pull her back.

 

“It must seem heartless that we are concerned with politics at such a time.”

 

Cassandra stared at Seamus. “You have no choice.”

 

“We have every choice.” The tone of Josie's own voice took her by surprise. Cassandra looked up. Josie's lip trembled. “I am so angry, Cassandra. I should not be, I have worked with these people for years and nothing should surprise me. They came into our home, one of them poisoned our Seamus and the others have nothing better to do than gawk at our tragedy like it's impromptu theatre. I would have them all flogged in the yard if I could.”

 

Cassandra met her with tired eyes. “And yet you intend to support Cullen against me.”

 

“Yes. Seamus cares about only two things in this world: his Inquisition and his lady. And both will still be standing when he wakes. On that you have my word.”

 

“And if he doesn't wake?”

 

“Then you will be standing nonetheless. The Inquisitor must be ready to protect the Divine.”

 

It might have been a rousing sentiment, but it didn't penetrate Cassandra's haze. She looked back at her lover, sprawled by her side, and this time did not look back up. Josie prayed their goodbyes wouldn't come yet, but they had to be ready.

 


	38. Before - Nineteen

The assault against Adamant fortress was bloody. Grey wardens, the guilty and innocent, were slaughtered in their dozens, and Inquisition soldiers fell alongside them. They charged the inner gates, bashed them down.

 

Cassandra's hand had paused over  _ Promise _ in the armoury, knowing she needed the better weapon. It had looked so bright and new in its cradle, untarnished by battle. She had preferred her old, damaged longsword and held it steady at her side as the gates came down.

 

Seamus talked to Cullen for a brief while, orders were exchanged. The full might of the Inquisition forces swelled around them. From a few faithful to an army, the best of Thedas had come out to support their Inquisitor, his holy aura drawing more and more to them every day. What had started as dissidents in Haven were now an imposing army, climbing the walls, sending hails of arrows against the wardens.

 

And Seamus looked good leading them. Right. He had always looked good leading their little crew – a few bodyguards, some surveyors and scouts. But at the head of his army he looked as just, as fitted.

 

He exchanged words with Blackwall, then found her at the front lines. He was taller today, somehow, more fierce.

 

“What's our path?” she asked.

 

Seamus shook his head. “I'm going to take Blackwall, Vivienne and Sera ahead. I need you to secure the battlements. We're still facing resistance.”

 

Her heart leapt to her throat. “What?”

 

“Take the others, they'll follow your lead.”

 

“I should be with you.”

 

“Don't argue with me, Cassie.” He cast his eyes around at the soldiers, their attention firmly fixed on him. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Blackwall has me. I need you to protect our people.”

 

She nodded mutely, keeping her objections silent while the eyes of his army were upon them. Blind panic stabbed at her chest. She was already so tender, almost sore from their weeks and months of clumsy courtship that bludgeoned at her heart. Now what should have been a straightforward concern became a complex, terrible fear. Blackwall wasn't strong or fast enough. She had seen the many nightmares that could come to life on a battlefield like this and it would have been best to face them together.

 

“As you say, my lord,” she said, gripping the hilt of her sword. It should have been  _ Promise _ . He should have been with her, she with him. 

 

“I'll see you on the other side. Stay safe.”

 

“And you.”

 

He met her eyes, a look laced with a meaning she couldn’t discern, and then was gone. He led his team through the great gates and Cassandra turned to find her own.

 

Seamus' inner circle stood ready, not a single face she was particularly glad to have at her side but all of them equal to the task. She slammed her sword against her shield to get their attention. Cullen clasped her on the shoulder as he walked by, a squeeze for encouragement before he too was gone.

 

“With me,” she said. “To the battlements. We are to make a clear path for the soldiers.”

 

The boom of one of Seamus' fire glyphs exploding beyond the wall sent a jolt of fear from the base of her spine to her jawbone. The sound signalled enemies were getting close to him, that she had to turn and run to him in case they hadn't been incinerated in a single blow.

 

She swallowed it down and led her team through the sand-worn desert fortress, up to the battlements. Grey Wardens, tired and filthy, fought alongside teams of demons, trying to dislodge the Inquisition ladders, sending arrows raining down on their ranks. Bodies fell from ladder after ladder, the wardens in the advantageous position. She gathered the pangs in her chest and let them turn to rage, hurling herself headlong into their enemies and taking the anxiety out on them.

 

It was off. Wrong. Dorian planted his mines too close to her. Varric drew attention to himself too quickly. She couldn't anticipate Cole's movements. It worked well enough, but she couldn't lose herself in the heat of battle enough to put her her whole heart into the fight. A part of her had to be set aside, keeping watch on the others.They weren’t moving fast enough. 

 

Seamus' fire bloomed again over the walls.

 

“The Inquisition offers amnesty,” was her constant call, long before each unit came into their fighting range. Her voice was cracked and hoarse with it. Some took it up, others didn't. Bull hauled their soldiers over the walls by one arm, Inquisition forces beginning to flood the parapets.

 

She became less necessary as they went, their forces far outnumbering the Wardens trying to fight them off.

 

These Wardens had become monsters. She had always admired their sacrifice, their stoicism. During the Blight she had fought with the Divine Beatrix, tried to get her to intervene on the Wardens' behalf in Ferelden. She had been blind to the troubling aspect of them. They had to take any measures to stop the Blight, but their blind adherence to duty could corrupt. Their complete disregard for the laws of the Maker could lead them to dark places. Maybe even to a darkness worse than what they fought.

 

Seamus’ glyph was distant this time, just a faint boom of sudden incineration, the clatter of bodies thrown in the air. But it meant he was still alive, still fighting.

 

“Not with the boss today, Seeker?” Varric asked, finding a moment as they marched.

 

“Not today.”

 

“It's a big day. He must not want any distractions.”

 

She glanced at him, measuring her response. He seemed to think he was being friendly or reassuring. “Neither do I.”

 

Varric spoke as though she distracted Seamus. The distraction was being separated. The distraction was trying to knock a rage demon to the ground with her shield while seeing Seamus' flames licking at the sky in the corner of her eye, not knowing how desperate his fight or how well Blackwall was protecting him.

 

No, he had done this out of some misguided sense of honour, pushing her into the light fighting on the battlements while he faced the true threat in the belly of the keep. It was the only explanation. And if he thought this was some kind of protection then he didn't realise how many years were being taken off her life every time a strange noise came from his direction. A threat to him that she couldn't fight against.

 

She was rattled. Not from the fighting, she could fight this fight a hundred times. She was rattled down to her bones by everything, the past six months, the war they fought and the possibility of walking away once it was done. She had thought, a lifetime ago, that she needed to break and mend the bones that made her so rigid. Now she faced down the prospect of cracking it all open and exposing the marrow. She couldn't. Not with everything happening around her.

 

A great screech pierced the air.

 

Cassandra knew the sound, Seamus had become obsessed with it. A high dragon. Its shadow came up against the desert sun. She stopped dead, eyes fixed on the looming silhouette. Any dragon would have frozen her on the spot, but there was something wrong about this one. It moved with an inelegant, jerky gait, its wings tattered beyond repair. Lyrium glowed in the gaping wounds on its ribs and neck.

 

An archdemon.

 

It dove for the keep, some spot far off from her and she knew without a moment's hesitation what its target was.

 

“ _ Move! _ ” she roared at her troops, breaking into a sprint, forcing her tired body to move.

 

The dragon slammed into one of the towers and breathed bruised purple flames into the walkways. Cassandra took a breath when it was met with natural orange flame from within, the tower burning in darkness and brightness by the competing fires. Her feet pounded against the sandstone, met by a thousand feet behind her.

 

The remaining Warden forces were overwhelmed, falling so quickly that she didn't have to distract herself fighting them. The whole of the Inquisition force poured into the keep, all of them running to get to the Inquisitor.

 

_ Don't take him _ , she prayed as the dragon leapt again, flapped its wings and took another dive at the tower. Its claws dug into the stone work and it tore at the walkway, trying to get its head in further to reach something.  _ Maker, please don't take him. _

 

Her heart was pounding in her ears, the fortress became more and more surreal, lit with fire that seemed to cast more shadows than light and the green glow of the rifts, Wardens turned into twisted fiends and the light danced across the walls in webs and ripples.

 

“Seeker!” Iron Bull called her attention just as he slammed his shoulder into a locked door. The wood exploded into a shower of splinters and she ran to the path he had cleared.

 

Her chest burned, her heart thundered in her ears. The terror was a living being in her chest, strangling her from the inside. The archdemon roared again, so close.

 

Cassandra burst into the courtyard just in time to see the creature corner Seamus and his team, along with Stroud and Hawke on the edge of a broken bridge. She couldn't reach them. There was nothing she could do.

 

A strange, strangled sound came out of her mouth when the dragon charged. She couldn't make out what was happening. Only fire and blood and the crumbling of stone. Somehow the beast staggered. It fell, writhing, its momentum carrying it forward.

 

Then, nothing. Total silence over the battlefield as it fell and took Seamus and his party over the cliff.

 


	39. After - Twenty

Cullen had known the peace couldn't last. Bad enough to have his guests duelling in the yard, and the Fereldan honour guard marching through the great hall, but now what he had feared was coming to pass.

 

His guard led the way to the latest incident, the two of them hastening down from the battlements in the burning heat. The lower yard was almost empty, thank the Maker. The word might not spread too quickly.

 

Two of his men at the front gates were bailed up by an Orlesian in a polished steel mask and three men at arms. Cullen's men were trying to be diplomatic, hands shooshing, faces red, but there was no stopping the noble in his tirade.

 

“I have had enough of this!” The noble shouted. “Open these gates at once!”

 

Cullen dashed to intercede, succeeding in putting himself between the two men before one of them came away worse for wear.

 

“My lord-” he tried.

 

“It is compte!” The arch man spat. “Compte Roign d'Enchenne, if you please, ser.”

 

“Compte, perhaps we could discuss your grievances out of the heat?” 

 

“I will discuss them on the mountain road, once I am out of this place. We have had enough of your games, Commander, we came here for a wedding, not to be held as hostages.”

 

Cullen hoped the deflating feeling in his chest didn't show on the outside. He crossed his arms. “There is a criminal loose here, ser. The gates open only at Seeker Pentaghast's discretion. If you wish to leave, it is her you must petition, not some poor slob manning the door.”

 

The compte took an aggressive step toward him, Cullen could see his own distorted face in the man's mask. “And when will the Seeker be receiving petitions? Will it be this week, this month?”

 

It was an impressively bold move, Cullen felt, for the diminutive compte to attempt to physically intimidate him. But he couldn't let this get out of hand. This man had no hope of besting him in combat, but he could start a riot within the walls.

 

“I can speak to her on your behalf. You'll have your answer within the day,” Cullen said.

 

“A day? And when her answer is no, what then, Commander? No, I will leave this place and leave it now, even if I must order my men to cut yours down.”

 

It was Cullen's turn to step forward, arms crossed, towering over the compte in the shadow of the great gates. He forced the little man back a step. “Are you sure that's a wise course of action?”

 

The men-at-arms tensed in their gaudy ceremonial armour, hands hovering over their sword hilts. The compte looked around out of the corner of his eye, stubby fingers flexing. Three men at arms, three Inquisition guards. Not insurmountable odds.

 

“I will not be held hostage. Open these gates.” The compte refused to be pushed back further, standing chest to chest with him. “Or see what happens.”

 

Cullen had options. He could let the man and his entourage go. It would infuriate Cassandra, possibly making her lose the last sliver of calm she clung to. And when more and more people demanded their release he would eventually get one who might be responsible for the attack, forcing his hand into an arrest. He could have the man cut down, which would start that riot without a doubt. He could take him into custody for threatening the Inquisition. Probably his least inflammatory option, but still likely to push their guests to breaking point.

 

“Guards!” he called, drawing out the four or five from the gated battlements. “The compte has let the heat get the better of him. Please escort him to his quarters and ensure he stays there until he is feeling more temperate.”

 

The man sputtered, bared his teeth, but as the guards surrounded him any protest turned to simmering fury. He couldn't fight them all and he knew it.

 

“This is not the last you've heard of this, Commander Rutherford,” he spat.

 

Cullen stayed and oversaw the disarming of the Orlesians, waited in the heat as they were led away. The compte made himself ridiculous in his anger, shouting wild accusations as he was led away. Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. If the man had made a calm argument to the watching guests he would have posed a much larger threat.

 

The house arrest would solve things so briefly it barely mattered. One angry compte was going to be followed by a hundred others. His guards could overwhelm three men at arms, but if every honour guard in Skyhold united against them it would become a pitched battle with the bulk of their army within their own walls.

 

He made for the great hall. There was only one true solution. Cassandra had to see sense.

 

They had done their best. They had exhausted all options and it had come to nothing. She couldn't burn the Inquisition in the fires of her vengeance.

 

The heat was unbearable, sweat running down his spine in the sun. Days before the wedding they had all been sitting around in Seamus' loft, stripped down to their cotton underclothes, drinking sweet wine and laughing at Josephine's stories. Now his face was burnt, his armour creaking, the stairs to the hall endless.

 

His guards and guests were under no less stress. Skyhold was filled with tired, heat-worn people on their last nerves. Varric and Hawke were usually a staple of the sparring ring around this time, but even they had foregone their activities.

 

The hall itself was blessedly cool, if only because it was out of the direct sunlight. His eyes took a moment to adjust. Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine stood behind the throne, deep in some important conversation that he just didn't have time for today.

 

“Cassandra,” he meant to interrupt her, but taking in the slump of her shoulders, the shadow on her face, he stopped himself. “What's happened?”

 

Josephine leaned closer to him and murmured, “His breathing has begun to slow. It's almost time.”

 

Cassandra's eyes were red, her arms folded around herself, but still she didn't cry. The damned woman would be cast into the pit before she just let herself feel it. Cullen felt it. A deep, burrowing sadness that he might have said his last words to Seamus. At least they had been good words. Everyone had been overflowing with kindness and well wishes on his last night.

 

“I'm sorry, Cassandra,” he said, wishing he hard something more to say.

 

The three of them stood back from her, judging how well she would take comfort. A friendly touch was as likely to provoke a fouler mood as it was to offer condolence. Cassandra shook her head, as if clearing the fog.

 

“What did you come here for, Cullen?”

 

He hesitated. It wasn't the time, but he didn't have the space to be courteous. “An Orlesian just tried to storm the gates. It appears our charade is reaching its end.”

 

A resigned silence came over them, each of the women turning their eyes away, searching for answers, trying to come up with one more idea. They had played for time, but that time was done.

 

“I could...” Josephine trailed off.

 

Leliana nodded, eyes on the floor. “We need to accuse someone or accept that we'll never know. We don't have enough evidence to bring against anyone.”

 

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “We don't have enough political capital to go accusing anyone. The waters are too muddy. We don't have anything solid.”

 

“Who is left?” Cassandra's quiet voice took their attention. “Who is yet to be exonerated?”

 

Josephine looked between them all before answering. “King Alistair and Warden Commander Theodora.”

 

Cassandra stepped away from them, moving with a certain unthinking grace, like a sleepwalker. Eyes harder than flint, parade posture returned, she took up her seat on Seamus' throne. She lay  _ Promise _ across her knees, the blade glinting in the sparse rays of sunshine turned red by the stained glass windows behind her. The new Inquisitor.

 

Cullen, Josephine and Leliana followed her, standing beside the throne, a grotesque mockery of their ordained unity under Seamus.

 

There was one last chance for her to get this right, to prevent mutiny.

 

“What would you have us do?” Cullen asked.

 

Cassandra stared ahead, unseeing. One hand tightened around the hilt of her sword.

 

“Bring them both here. Let's end this.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	40. Before - Twenty

 

The world was black and white and brilliant green as the two armies, now leaderless, clashed. Cassandra couldn't breathe. She let her body move on instinct, one wrong move meant death. The instinctive fear overtook the knowledge that she had seen Seamus fall to his death. She couldn't think in the heat of battle, couldn't work through it.

 

When the rift they fought around flared she felt, deep inside herself, that it was done. They would die here.

 

She backed off, elbowing a warden in the face to clear a path for herself. She moved away remembering a hundred times before the rifts had flared and demons sprung from the ground around them. The fighting slowed and stopped, everyone focused on the rift. Tendrils sprung from it, promising demons.

 

The green light coalesced, twisting in the air, the green light forming arms and legs and finally crystallising into the form of Seamus Trevelyan.

 

A sound came from Cassandra's mouth, something foreign and animal.

 

The battlefield stopped cold, their caution at the rift opening turning to understanding. The Wardens had lost their leader. The Inquisition still had theirs. It was over.

 

Seamus searched through the crowd with his eyes until he found her. She saw a shadow of her own expression pass over his face, felt it pass between them. Painful relief. They were alive despite all efforts to the contrary.

 

There were words exchanged, serious words that would decide the fate of the Grey Wardens, and she heard none of them. Her heart thundered in her ears. She couldn't take her eyes off him, her mind trying to replace the images of him broken at the bottom of a canyon with his living, breathing visage.

 

Seamus talked to the Wardens, to Cullen, ordering the takeover of Adamant Fortress, but his eyes kept meeting hers, as if reassuring himself that she still lived, as she was for him. Every time he looked at her another shock ran through her. She needed to talk to him. If she could just touch him, even a squeeze of the hand or a touch on the shoulder, she could be sure he was real.

 

The two armies separated, the Inquisition moving out to secure the fortress. Cassandra felt the people around her disperse until she stood alone, still staring at Seamus.

 

He beckoned her forward and she complied, her feet moving on their own.

 

“Get the fortress secured,” he told Cullen. “I need to talk to Cassandra.”

 

Cullen nodded and moved off, she didn't see to where. Seamus pushed open the door nearest him, to whatever musty study or storeroom came off the great courtyard. Cassandra followed, letting him guide her, polite, even and calm into the room.

 

The door shut behind them.

 

They stood a few feet apart. He met her eyes, pupils dark and brows drawn together. His hair was plastered to his face. His lips parted, his breathing fast from the battle. The blood of Wardens and fade beasts lay in spatters on his white coat.

 

Cassandra flung herself into his arms and he wrapped her up. There was no pretence, no act that he had called her here for anything else. She buried her face in his neck and squeezed him tightly, too tightly.

 

“I'm here.” He cradled her face in his hand and peppered kisses through her hair. “I'm here.”

 

Oh, Maker, he was alive. Her breath was hard won, her heart still pounding against her ribs. He was alive. Tears pricked at her eyes. It was impossible to just let the tension go, it was a living animal inside her now. She was scared and grateful and still so sore. She pulled him closer, their armour a wall between them but she could feel the skin of his neck against her cheek. She could feel the pulse that lay there.

 

Seamus held her like some precious thing, shaking hands stroking her hair and back, kisses dropped against her face from breathless lips. Sounds came from his mouth, half formed words, the self-same unrealised terror that had wrapped itself around her throat and tongue. He held her tighter, she pressed herself into his arms.

 

This was how she was going to die. He had ruined her. One day he wouldn't be so lucky and her heart would stop along with his. She smothered herself against his neck, trying to keep it all inside.

 

“You died.” Her voice was cracked and broken. “I saw you die.” 

 

“I thought…” He let out a shuddering breath against her skin. “The fear demon, it kept saying...”

 

He tilted her chin up to look into her face. At first it was just a reassurance, letting them both see the other, alive. But then he didn’t look away. 

 

If her blood wasn't running so hot she might have pushed him away again. Instead she let him take her face in his hands, still gloved in bloody leather. She let him move in closer, his hips pinning her to the wall. She let him kiss her.

 

It was like the first time, slow and filthy and burning hot. His stubble scraped against the sensitive skin of her cheek as she parted her lips for him. He was alive. They were both alive, unsteady breath mingling and blooming between them. She tried to pull him in closer, desperate to touch as much of him as she could.

 

All the pain and fear of the day, the month, melted into something brighter, hotter. Her breaths came out as little whimpers against his mouth, her tender body giving into the first good feelings it was offered. She wanted more. She  _ needed _ more. Her armour felt like a prison, locking her away from his warmth, his strength.

 

Cassandra pushed at the collar of his overcoat, trying to tug it down his shoulders. Seamus broke their kiss and shucked the jacket, letting it pool on the ground at his feet. He came back to her, hungrier, huge hands at her waist pulling her in. He took a soft kiss from her mouth, another, then nudged her jaw with his nose and kissed her neck.

 

It felt good. It all felt so good. The memories of outside, of her grief, of the archdemon and the battle were all drowned in him. He was so big, so beautiful, glowing gold and orange in the torchlight and his every touch struck her like a blow. He kept kissing her, her neck, her mouth, his fingers working at the buckles of her breastplate.

 

Getting through their clothing was painstaking. Another buckle, another tie, another feverish kiss. Her hands were shaking. She needed him. She was going to burst if she couldn't have him. Her breastplate clattered to the ground. His gloves followed. She searched for more of his skin with mouth and hands.

 

A new fear, an exhilarating one, danced under her skin as he untied her undershirt. Seamus stilled, the last tie twisted in his fingers. He rested his forehead against hers, their gasping breaths timed to each others.

 

“Are you sure?” he breathed.

 

“Yes,” she said before considering the question.

 

This hadn't been what she'd wanted. She had a hundred reasons to say no. But when he tugged her shirt down her shoulders and all of a sudden her overheated skin was pressed against his chest, his hands running the length of her bare back, it didn't matter.

 

It came easier after that. His skin against hers was smooth and warm, scarred in places. His hands drew trails of fire across her body. She moaned helplessly into his mouth as he caressed her, his touch as indecent as the rest of him. It was unromantic and undignified and she returned it wholeheartedly. She dug her broken fingernails into his back as he fondled her breasts, smiling into her skin with every jerk and whimper he managed to tease out of her. 

 

And when he dropped to his knees to help her remove her trousers, he found the sweet spot of her hip with his mouth and she thought he might undo her.

 

It was foreign to be naked in front of a man. He looked up at her in reverence, lips parted in desire, eyes hopeless. In that moment the holiest man alive worshipped only her. It didn't embarrass her, it made her powerful.

 

He rose and grabbed her hips in one smooth motion. She found herself, guided by his hands and his hips, sitting at the edge of a wooden table.

 

She expected him to question her again, ask for reassurance that whatever was happening was not in his imagination. Instead he lifted her to the table and guided her legs around his waist. She felt him against her as their hips fit together. It was a blasphemous thrill to see and feel him like this. The Herald of Andraste naked and wanting.

 

He slipped a hand around the back of her neck and pressed his forehead against hers. She wasn't breathing properly. The muscles of her legs trembled.

 

Broken sounds escaped her as he pushed inside her, she couldn’t stop them. It felt so right, so good and difficult to no longer be grappling with something ephemeral. Finally after so long it was something she could express, in grasping hands and clenching muscles and desperate, pleading kisses. 

 

He clutched her close, groaning in her ear, and started to move. Maybe this would be enough, she thought as her body tightened and she pulled him in with her legs. Maybe she was finally close enough, maybe this was what she had needed. Maybe the pressure that squeezed like iron bands around her chest would break and then be gone.

 

They fumbled with each other, Cassandra trying to brace against any surface to support her body, trembling in every limb. She had to get closer, get more of him. It was too much and not enough and she just  _ needed _ him, needed to drown in him.

 

“Cassie,” he gasped against her neck. “Oh, my Cassie.”

 

“More,” she begged.

 

He grabbed her by the hips and gave her what she wanted. He was sweating, glowing, green light pulsing around them. It was getting worse and better, her heart thundered in her ears. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could do nothing but whimper and buck against him in frantic rising tones.

 

Andraste's chosen, her Seamus, was so beautiful in this moment that she couldn't stand it. He was not composed, not pristine or sacred. He was sweat and coarse body hair and glazed eyes, his hands searching as hopelessly as hers did. Andraste’s blessing was smothered between their skin where he dug his fingers into her hip. 

 

In that thought she hit her flashpoint, just as he moaned and shivered. The moment stretched out, all the pressure and tension coiling tight and exploding between them. They cried out together, hands grasping for purchase, hearts pounding, shuddering against each other. Cassandra bit her lip and let it overtake her. Heaven in his arms.

 

When she came back to herself she was slumped against his naked chest, limbs weak and heart still pounding.

 

With a finger under her chin Seamus turned her to look at him. He pressed gentle kisses against her nose and eyelids. She curled around him, seeking comfort in his arms. Every time she thought she had this under control he snuck up on her, overwhelmed her. It was like trying to hold handfuls of sand.

 

“We'd better get back out there,” he murmured.

 

She nodded, wanting to keep him close but knowing they would soon be missed. If she stayed they would end up talking about what they had just done, what it meant. She didn't want to think about it.

 

“Hey.” He nudged her chin up again and smiled. “We're alive.”

 

She laughed, surprising herself. His words, his smile, he might as well have cast a spell on her. She could breathe again. Had it been such a short time ago she had feared he was dead? She let out a long sigh, allowing him to step away from her and begin to collect his clothing.

 

She had time enough to worry about the implications now that he was alive.


	41. After - Twenty One

  
The great hall grew crowded. Cassandra sat on the throne, keeping her composure, watching the gawkers file in one by one.    
  
_ Promise _ 's hilt was warm in her hand. An anchor holding her in the moment. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She had never wanted a throne. She had declared the Inquisition for Justinia, declared Seamus the Inquisitor. Both dead. Even if Seamus stubbornly lingered, not letting her go.    
  
He would hate this. Their friends, their allies, held as prisoners and suspects. Anathema to his memory. He always had the solution, diplomatic and even-handed. What would he have done in her situation? She asked herself the question every minute. And she didn't care about the answer. He wasn't here to object.   
  
The major dignitaries had come for the show. The Duke, the Grand Enchanter, the Arls and Comptes, even Cullen's family. Good. Cullen thought to undermine her, but a coup in front of all these people was as sure an end to the Inquisition as any action she might take.    
  
They all cared so much.    
  
The Inquisition was nothing without Seamus.    
  
How could any of them picture a tomorrow without him? It would exist, as surely as it ever had, but without him there was no divine mandate, no ordained purpose. Just the lot of them scrabbling to hold together a group of people without function. It was barely worth saving. She wouldn't sacrifice her justice to save it.    
  
The king was escorted into the hall, his honour guard flanking him. She had more guards. Lining the walls, blocking the doors. No one would escape here with sword unbloodied.    
  
King Alistair was a fine man in all respects she could attribute to him. They had chaffed, on occasion. The Inquisition's expansion had impinged on his borders, but he hadn't complained about any aspect or in any manner that she could hold against him.    
  
“To the front,” she commanded. Her guards ushered the man without touching him, hands pointed forward. She wanted to look him in the eye. To see if all his charm and non-threatening demeanour were false in some way she could detect.    
  
His guards stood back as he came to stand before her. Their hands were at their weapons. So were her guards'.    
  
The king must looked her in the eye, jaw tight, eyes proud. “So it's come down to this, has it, Seeker?”   
  
“Not quite.” She looked ever his shoulder as the doors opened past the crowd. “It's down to two.”   
  
King Alistair looked back as two soldiers led the Warden Commander forward, each holding her firmly by the arm. The surprise on his face was real enough for her liking. They had been fighting bodily in the yard not two days ago. One would turn on the other.    
  
The guards placed Theodora roughly at the foot of the stairs, the Warden Commander as inscrutable as ever. Just watching with hawkish eyes.    
  
Cassandra leaned back in the throne, resting her hands against her blade. She looked between her two surprised, confused suspects. Let them stew. One of them had killed Seamus. One of them had taken him from her.    
  
“The Inquisitor is dying,” she announced. “The night of the feast someone poisoned him in his own chambers. My council has made an account of the whereabouts of every guest in this keep at the time. Except two.”   
  
The crowd murmured, gasped, played at shock and scandal. They had known. They all knew at this point. They had been waiting for this. Another piece of gossip to be bandied around the Orlesian court like currency. A hundred faces to immortalise her tragedy for their own purposes.    
  
These people should never have been allowed into their home. One of them, one of these two, had taken him. Through anger or jealousy or political manoeuvre they had snuffed him out. She had no more hand in hers, no more radiant smile, no more twisting in soft cotton sheets or steeping herself in his laughter, his light.    
  
“Seeker, this is ridiculous,” King Alistair said, in the same tone one used on a startled horse. His eyes darted to Theodora.    
  
“One of you killed him,” Cassandra said. “And today I will either take the head of one murderer, or one murderer and one liar. Confess.”   
  
The king's honour guard was active in a heartbeat, swords drawn, but the Inquisition soldiers outnumbered them ten to one. Her men disarmed the Fereldans and pulled them aside without further fuss. It must have been humiliating, Cassandra supposed, to see their king so vulnerable and be able to do nothing about it.    
  
“And if neither of us confesses you'll kill us both?” Theodora asked. Hawkish. Observing.    
  
“Yes.”   
  
A choked, shocked cry went up from the onlookers. Cassandra stared out at them, daring any one of them to challenge her. Her two suspects glanced at each other, then around the room. There was no one who could help them. She needed them to know that.    
  
A hand on her shoulder alerted her that Cullen had come up beside her. She looked up to meet him. He wore a look of stark fear that she hadn't seen on him since the worst throes of his lyrium withdrawal.    
  
“This is too far, Cassandra,” he hissed. “You need to stop.”   
  
She narrowed her eyes. “Challenge me, Rutherford. Or let me work.”   
  
“I did it.”   
  
Cassandra whipped around to see the king take a step forward, approaching her throne. He regarded her with wide eyes. Fearful. Determined.   
  
“Are you confessing, Your Majesty?” Cassandra asked, her voice breaking.    
  
“Yes,” he said. “I did it. I... He didn't respect my borders. We wanted the exalted council to put an end to this and when they didn't I just... I...” His voice shook. His hands shook.    
  
Cassandra’s lips parted, her brow furrowed. She had wanted a confession, she had engineered it so. But this man was a terrible liar.    
  
“He's lying,” Theodora said, stepping forward.   
  
“Teddy, don't,” Alistair whispered frantically to her.    
  
“He's lying.” The Warden Commander pushed the king aside with one shoulder and stood between Cassandra and her quarry. She met Cassandra's gaze with unsettling blue eyes, chest puffed out and fists clenched at her sides. “He's protecting me. It was me.”   
  
The murmurs from the people in the hall were a distant background noise. The walls, the blazing torches, the statues and guards. It all faded away into the distant, deranged eyes of this Warden.    
  
Cassandra swallowed to wet her mouth. “Tell me why.”   
  
Theodora laughed. A real, bitter, manic laugh that echoed around the wall. A twisted smile blossomed on her face. “How could you even ask such a stupid question? He banished the wardens from Orlais. The wardens. I was there, Seeker, when the wardens were banished from Ferelden. I was there while power-hungry madmen fought to keep them out even as the Blight killed people in their tens of thousands. It suited your agenda to have the wardens gone? Good for you. I'm glad you found a solution that suited you.”   
  
The Warden Commander climbed the stairs, one by one, her face glowing with rage and passion until she stood before Cassandra alone. Her perfectly styled hair was coming apart, the braid spilling black hair about her face. “Do you know who paid the price for that hubris last time? Do you have any idea what I had to do to survive that Blight, up here in your ivory tower? Do you? Do you have any idea?”   
  
“Teddy, no!” The king lunged forward but Inquisition guards caught him, restraining him by both arms. “She's lying!”   
  
Cassandra looked at the blood mage before her, the awful, sour smile, the struggling king behind her fighting helplessly against more guards than he could fight.    
  
“Warden Commander Theodora, I condemn you for the murder of Lord Seamus Trevelyan.” Cassandra rose, sword in one hand. “On your knees.”   
  
The hall grew loud with sounds Cassandra couldn't distinguish from one another. Yelling, metal armour grinding, feet on sandstone. She gave them time to remove the guests. They'd had as much theatre as she would bear to give them. She didn't take her eyes from the smug face of the Warden Commander.    
  
The king was still struggling against the guards, trying to get to them, even as the guests were ushered out. Theodora met Cassandra's eyes, unblinking. Her unnerving, unknowable smile stayed on her face, but there was something else there that made her pause. Victory.    
  
Cassandra looked around, sword raised, ready to take the head in one clean blow. The people were leaving. King Alistair roared his objections, struggling against her men. The Warden Commander draped her dishevelled braid over one shoulder, ready for the killing blow.    
  
Cassandra paused, sword raised. The two of them couldn't be accounted for. When they were threatened they both swore their guilt to protect the other. Theodora's missing buttons. Seamus hadn’t been the one to tear at her clothes.   
  
“Neither of you did it,” she breathed. “You were together.”   
  
Before the blanched look could settle on Theodora's face, a child's wail cut the air.


	42. Before - Twenty One

Cassandra didn't know if she should be relieved or frustrated. The journey from Adamant to Skyhold accompanying the bulk of their forces was slow and every minute of her time was accounted for. She had no chance to talk to Seamus. Not that he was pressing the issue. He was most often seen ranging with Lorelai Hawke, their horses competing for speed in the sand. So she was spared the trouble of avoiding him, if that's what she was doing. Also spared the trouble of frank discussion, if she wanted it.

 

In the perfunctory march back to Skyhold she was so often left to her own thoughts, and with those thoughts vivid flashbacks that turned her cheeks pink. Seamus did not seem troubled by such thoughts, keeping himself busy riding the flank and tiring out his horse. 

 

The army was setting up camp a distance from the river that ran through the plains, affording her a moment's privacy. The sheltered river that ran through the canyon had looked tantalisingly cool. She sat by the bank and unlaced her boots, pulled them off one at a time and groaned from the pleasure of having her hot, tired feet free from their confines. She rolled her trousers up to the knee and sat on a rocky outcrop over the water, letting her feet dangle into the stream.

 

Cassandra sighed and leaned back on her hands. There were others around, she wasn't the only one to retreat from the sweltering heat. Soldiers sat up and down the riverbank, among the sparse grass and flowering brambles. The sun was sinking, the first tinge of orange painting the sky.

 

It was a moment's peace when she wanted it least. Corypheus, if not defeated, was weakened. Victory was within their reach. Another month, two months, three, and she would be headed to the divine council to advocate her candidacy. For now she was in a holding pattern, nothing but empty blue sky, sore feet and an irrational terror of what might happen next time she found herself alone with the Inquisitor.

 

Worse, she couldn't decide what she feared would happen. Was it worse for him to be indifferent? Romantic? Did she fear that he would be wounded, assuming she, like the others, had only been interested in him until she'd caught him? No. Not if she thought about it. The worst case she could imagine was Seamus being himself, dispelling all her fears and reservations like he was holding a torch in a shadowy room.

 

She should give in to this. She couldn't pretend indifference, couldn't hope to wrestle independence back into place. When the day came for her to leave Skyhold she would do so with a broken heart. There was no avoiding it now. All she could control was how much she enjoyed the intervening time.

 

She watched the water run past her ankles, leaves and twigs twisting on the surface as they drifted past. She'd had plans, dreams for a lover. Men were more often a distraction than a joy, and if she had to bear up under the whims and moods of another person it would only be in pursuit of true romance. The kind bards sung about, the kind books were written about.

 

The whole idea had seemed too silly to speak aloud, but it mattered. It mattered to her. It had mattered too much and she had been thrown by Seamus going off script.

 

These stories had a structure. Poetry, flowers, candlelight. The heroine pined for her beloved as some external force kept them apart, and the great crescendo was when he confessed his love despite it all. She hadn't thought it would be like that, not precisely, but Seamus had written a new story for them. One she didn't know by rote.

 

He danced with her at the Winter Palace, held her hand on snow-filled nights under the stars, made her extravagant gifts of the rare and beautiful. There was nothing keeping them apart that couldn’t be changed, he had been frank and open about how he cared for her since... since... she couldn't say when it started. Maybe in the undercroft but probably long before.

 

And this awkward, painful, squeezing, bursting sensation that now lived within her would reach no peak. He had played his part to the fullest, there was no final scene for him to act out. He had done everything, more than she could ever have dreamed. And Cassandra was stuck with a hard truth that no romance heroine ever had to face: she was making the story now.

 

If she wanted separation she had to enforce it, if she wanted romantic lovemaking she would have to initiate it and if she wanted a grand declaration of love she would have to make one. At first she had hesitated to give herself time to make a difficult decision. Now that hesitation had turned into cowardice.

 

The only thing stronger than her fear was how much she wanted. She wanted him with her every thought, every heartbeat, her body struggling against her own stubbornness and pride.

 

“Hey.” Cassandra jumped as Seamus startled her out of her reverie. She had been so lost in thought that she hadn't noticed him approach. She wasn't prepared for him to suddenly be so close, taking a seat beside her, legs crossed to keep his boots out of the water.

 

She hadn't organised her thoughts. She hadn't decided how to proceed. She hadn't been prepared to see him, so near that she could remember the stubble of his jaw scraping across her skin. His calloused fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve and she knew what they felt like digging into her hips while he... while he... She knew the sounds he made.

 

Her face burned hot, her mouth open but not moving.  _ Oh, my Cassie _ . Why did he have to surprise her? If she just had a little more time she could have come up with something.

 

Seamus sighed. “I was worried about this. I'm sorry, I got carried away again.”

 

A joy washed over Cassandra. The idiot. She loved this idiot so much. For his strength, for his constance, and for being the only person she knew who was so easy a mark that even she could make sport of him.

 

“You're sorry for it?” she asked, feigning indignity.

 

“I... Uh... I didn't mean...” A flash of panic crossed his face. She smiled at him and he let out a huff. “Don't scare me like that.”

 

Cassandra spread her toes in the cold water, staring fixedly at a bramble while she tried to come up with the right thing to say. If he had just waited until Skyhold she might have plucked up her courage, had time enough to sort through the thoughts in her head and find the ones she needed to share with him. Instead they were within earshot of gaggles of their soldiers and her thoughts ran in circles.

 

“You left me behind,” she said, her voice even through willpower alone. “And you nearly died again.”

 

He sighed, looking out over the river. “It's nearly time, Cass. Soon Corypheus will be gone, and we're going to have to learn to get along without each other.”

 

“Oh, wonderful. You're going to get yourself killed to prove a point.”

 

“I'm not dead.”

 

No, he wasn't. They had been separated in a time of great danger and importance and the only thing it had cost them was a half hour of sanity. She had hated it. Every second. From the moment his order had left his lips it had been like suffocating.

 

“I thought I'd lose my mind,” she confessed, looking anywhere but at him.

 

“I did, too. I never wanted it to be like this. I didn't mean for what happened at Adamant to happen. I keep trying to back off and give you your space but...” He cut himself off. “It doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.”

 

“Don't say such a thing,” she said. It must have cost him so much to say. She wasn't the other women he had been with. He wasn't a status, a position, or a pretty toy to her. She wouldn't have done something like that if she hadn't needed him like she needed air to breathe.

 

Seamus twisted one of the flowers loose from the bush beside him, a pretty white thing with a long stem.

 

“I mean it,” he said, eyes serious and earnest. “No more slip ups, no more heat of the moment. The next time I kiss you it's going to be because you want me to.”

 

Cassandra glanced up and down the bank. He could not have picked a worse time or place for this. Oh, what she would have given to express herself freely. In that moment she was sure she could write poetry. Reams upon reams of it, the only way she could truly express how much she had wanted every one of his kisses. From the first time he made her laugh to this very day on the riverbank in there was not one second she had not wanted him to kiss her.

 

She thought to make some elaborate denial, push his attention back toward the impossibility of it all. Their duty, their responsibility, their divergent paths. But she now saw what a self-destructive instinct she was following. She wanted this. She had always wanted it.

 

Seamus leaned in close, his fingers toying with her hair and it took her a heartbeat to realise he was threading the flower into her braid. She closed her eyes.

 

“I know I can't give you everything you need,” Seamus murmured to her. “But I'm trying. I want you to have everything you want.”

 

Skyhold. She had to wait for Skyhold. She wasn't like him, she couldn't turn a few simple words into a heart-squeezing declaration. She couldn't show him what he meant to her here, amongst their army at the side of a brackish stream.

 

So Cassandra did what she could. She left the flower in her hair and in sight of their soldiers she leaned forward and took his hand. He curled his fingers around hers, squeezing gently, and the sheepish smile he tried to suppress melted her heart.

 


	43. After - Twenty Two

The great hall was chaos. Cullen had tried to stay Cassandra's hand, but now she stood over the kneeling warden commander and all he could think was to get his family out before poor Lewyn was scarred for life.

 

If they could get the people out maybe he could reason with her. Maybe... How could this have happened? They had been so sure Theodora was innocent. He hadn't seen her anger, the kind of rage and hatred it would take to do something like this.

 

Cullen caught Mia, one hand on her shoulder. “Come on, get out of here.”

 

“Come on, Lewyn,” Mia said, trying to tug the boy's arms free of her waist. Inquisition guards herded people out around them. He hadn't heard who had given the order. Maybe Leliana had done it, hoping for the chance to plead for her friend's life. “Lewyn, let go!”

 

Lewyn wasn't letting go of Mia, his face buried in her chest, shoulders shaking. He was too old for this sort of attack, even a shy boy like him.

 

Cullen knelt beside him ready to give the boy a word, but as soon as he was on his knee Lewyn let go of Mia, instead flinging his arms around his uncle's shoulders and letting out a loud wail.

 

Cullen rocked back with the force of it, his hysterical nephew suddenly in his arms and howling like a newborn. The others were being ushered out, their only company now a handful of guards, the Fereldan King and the doomed warden.

 

“I don't know what's gotten into him,” Mia said helplessly, eyes flitting between the door and their nephew.

 

“I didn't mean it,” Lewyn wailed. “I didn't mean it.”

 

Cullen glanced to Cassandra. The warden commander still knelt at the steps but Cassandra had walked past her, sword lowered. The king broke free of his guards and scrambled to Theodora. The two of them clutched each other, a lover's embrace on their knees before the Inquisitor's throne.

 

Cassandra walked toward him.

 

“What are you talking about?” he asked Lewyn. “What's the matter?”

 

“I didn't... I just...” He was choking on his tears, gasping for breath. “I didn't mean to. I just... I just... wanted to see him again and... and... he was y-y-yelling...”

 

Cullen grabbed Lewyn by the shoulders and pulled him back, looking at the red-faced boy, snot running from his nose, face screwed up in pain. 

 

Oh, no. Oh, how could he have been so stupid? Lewyn had adored Seamus, been completely starstruck by him. Of course he'd wanted to see him again when he left the feast so early.

 

“Tell me what happened,” Cullen said, as calmly as he could manage. He rubbed Lewyn's shoulders, trying to calm him.

 

“He was yelling and... and he was trying to get the bottle and I-I-I thought it was his medicine...” The boy dissolved into tears over again. “He went to sleep. He just went to sleep.”

 

Cullen pulled the boy back into his arms and held him tight. Mia dropped to the floor beside them and wrapped her arms around them, pressing kisses to Lewyn's hair.

 

Cullen looked up at Cassandra, now standing above them.

 

She was a Seeker, in that moment. The bogeyman haunting templars and mages alike. Implacable, unemotional, immovable. A tower of black armour and lethal justice. There was no reading her, no telling what she would do next. She might have been sated if she could blame this on someone, take out her grief in fury and vengeance, but it had been an accident. There was no greater purpose, no battle they had lost. They were going to lose Seamus with nothing to blame but his own awful luck.

 

Mia was sobbing quietly, tears streaming from her eyes as she looked up at Cassandra. The Seeker only stared, sword loose in her hand.

 

“Cassandra, please,” Cullen said. His sword hung heavy at his side. He would have only seconds to act if she was really so far gone as to attack Lewyn. She was stronger than him on a good day, but today was her worst day. Maybe he could subdue her without killing her, bind her hands and feet and sit her at Seamus' bedside where she should have been from the beginning.

 

Cassandra looked at the sword in her hand and her mouth fell open, as if seeing it for the first time. Her eyes flew to his, wide and surprised, horror dawning over her. She dropped the sword like it burned, the dragon bone clattering against the stone.

 

Josephine was on her almost before it hit the ground, doeskin shoes slapping against the stone as she sprinted to make it before Cassandra fell. She wrapped an arm around the Seeker's waist and took her face in her free hand.

 

“Come on,” Josephine said, forcing Cassandra to look at her. “It's time. It's time to be with him.”

 

For the first time since it had happened she looked frail, weak. Her eyes were unfocused and she nodded into Josephine's hand, like a lost child. It took both Josephine and Leliana to guide her, staggering to the stairs with each of them holding her hands.

 

Cullen gasped with relief. He hadn't realised he was holding his breath. He grabbed Mia and Lewyn tightly, thanking the Maker that he still had his family. The days ran over again in his memory, reminding him how close they had come to disaster, how near a miss they’d all suffered. What a mess, what a bloody mess.

 

“It's alright,” he murmured to Lewyn. “It's alright, we know you didn't mean it. It was just an accident.”

 

Lewyn didn't say anything, sobbing into his arms. He'd have to live with this all his life. Killing the Inquisitor on his wedding day. What wretched, Maker-damned luck for all of them. He cradled his nephew close for a breath longer, then eased him into Mia's arms. He stroked his sister's hair. They would be alright, eventually. Shaken but unharmed, just like half of Skyhold.

 

Cullen stood and turned to the nearest guard. “Open the gates. Everyone is free to go.”

 

“Yes, ser.” The guard saluted and marched for the door. It was over. He could have shouted it, chased them out himself if only he weren’t so exhausted by it all. They could get all of these people out of their home, finally have the space to grieve. They could plan the funeral with some privacy.

 

He approached the king and the warden commander, who still clung to each other on the stairs, silent except for the muffled gasps that followed the terror of imminent death. They had been ready to die for each other. They thought it was going to happen. Thank the Maker it didn't, but they hadn't really needed to traumatise the king over again this week.

 

Of all the secrets he had thought would be exposed this week, the King of Ferelden keeping a blood mage as consort was not one of them. He should have been shocked, outraged, worried about his homeland. But for the moment he was just grateful that everyone was still alive. Let the politicians deal with the fallout later.

 

“Are you both alright?” he asked.

 

King Alistair cradled Teddy protectively under one arm, keeping her against his side. She stared straight at the ground with glassy, faraway eyes, still gasping. The king stared up at him with wary eyes, guarding his lover as if Cullen would drag her away and finish Cassandra’s work. They had done damage, here. Cassandra in her grief, the rest of them by letting it happen. 

 

“I'm sorry,” Cullen said with a helpless shrug. As though there were any words that could make up for what they'd put this man through. “I'm just... sorry.”

 

The king glanced at the maleficar under his arm, the woman whose very presence could dethrone him. He took a moment and seemed to size up the situation. “Maybe it's best we all just forget what happened here today. We'll have to have words if the Seeker stays as Inquisitor but... maybe I can keep one secret, if you'll allow it?”

 

“She won't stay as Inquisitor. You have my word.” It was done. They might have recovered, a day, two days ago, but there was no coming back from this. Seamus was the Inquisition, and Seamus was all but dead. He looked at the couple embracing, back to his family. “Stay as long as you need. I'll have the guards keep everyone out.”

 

He turned to go. He needed to be there when Seamus... at the end.

 

“Cullen,” Teddy croaked through her tears. “What was it? The poison?”

 

“Essence of laurel.”

 

“That's a bad way to go.”

 

Cullen looked down. “Yes. It is.”

 

She snuggled back into Alistair's shoulder and he took his leave. He spoke a few words to the guard at the door, telling him to keep everyone out. He took the stairs to the loft, each one creaking under his weight as he made the climb.

 

Josephine and Leliana sat on the upper stairs, silent. He understood. He wanted to say goodbye, to be there at the end, but it would be better to stay here. Cassandra needed his last hours for herself. He sat down next to Josephine, bone tired and aching. And together the three of them waited.


	44. Before - Twenty Two

Cassandra's bed in Skyhold had been a good enough refuge since she had arrived, but on her first night returned from Adamant she couldn't settle. She tossed and turned, mind playing over and over again her all-too-brief encounter with Seamus. Their walks in the starlight played out again, her breathless laughter on the nights he entertained her in his loft, Seamus weaving flowers into her hair under the desert sun. And above all again and again she saw his face each time she rejected him. Pulled away, refused to acknowledge him, put distance between them.

 

“Idiot,” she sighed into the still air of her quarters.

 

The hesitation that seemed to live in her bones was a poison. She had never been such a coward, and against what foe? A man she loved, who loved her back. A man of unassailable virtue, a true romantic who had brought her to life where before she had been sleepwalking.

 

Cassandra threw back her covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Every hour she waited would be another she would regret wasting. She had to do something, anything to cast off this toxic indecision.

 

So she paced in her room, bare legs freezing in the night air. She squeezed her hands together, trying to come up with some reason, any reason to go to his quarters in the middle of the night. Her feet moved of their own accord, taking her back and forward as her mind worked. What excuse could she use? Was there anything that would sound believable? Probably not.

 

“ _ Idiot _ ,” she cursed herself again. This was her problem in its entirety. If she wanted this, if she wanted him, she couldn't keep using excuses. He had been honest with her and she owed him the same. Honesty, and in more than just words.

 

He loved her, he showed her. She loved him, she hid and cowered. Idiot.

 

Cassandra pulled her heavy robe from where it lay over the back of her chair. She yanked it over her shoulders and tied it tight at the front. She caught a glimpse of herself in the clouded mirror. High white collar to her night shirt, shapeless robe, bare feet, hair a mess. There was little to be done about it unless she wanted to take the time to change into her armour.

 

She let out a little distressed noise at her own thoughts. That was her seductive outfit? Half-plate? Oh, Andraste, she was not made for this.

 

Before her nerves could leave her she stepped outside and slammed the door behind her. She pulled one of the lit torches from its sconce on the wall and looked up to where Seamus' tower was silhouetted against the starry sky. She trusted him to receive her as she hoped to be received. She had to trust it or the potential embarrassment would make her spontaneously combust. 

 

But he wasn't like that. He loved her, he meant it. Her feet slapped against the freezing cold stone and she should have worn boots. He loved her. It wasn't the strange fetish some men developed for her, he didn't stare at her as Iron Bull did in the training yard. She should have worn boots.

 

The fire from the torch lit up the narrow balustrades like a beacon, she was sure the whole of Skyhold was alerted to her presence. She marched to the gardens, eyes fixed straight ahead. Damn them if they saw her. She had spent too long caring what they thought.

 

The gardens were covered in fresh snow and moonlight, the statues and garden beds ghostly at midnight. Her breath turned to fog in front of her, the sight of it and the sharp pain in her chest forcing her to realise how fast she was breathing. The rambling bush of Andraste's grace was still blooming in the snow, white blossoms creeping along the railings and climbing the pillars.

 

On an impulse Cassandra tore one of the blooms free, then another. She set the torch down to gather more until she had a full, bursting bunch and in the morning would have a very angry apothecary on her hands. She wanted flowers. She wanted to be romantic for him, to return his many beautiful gestures. She wanted just once to make his heart leap and squeeze as hers so often did.

 

When she went to pick up the torch she found it had fizzled out in the snow. No matter, she was close enough to the well-lit hall now. Brandishing her bunch of flowers she strode to the hall, down the dim corridor to the guarded outer door.

 

One of Cullen's soldiers manned the door. He looked at her in surprise, eyes wide and mouth open. Cassandra stared back at him as she approached, daring him to say something. She didn't break her stride.

 

The young man scrambled to open the door for her. “Uh, pleasant evening, Seeker Pentaghast.”

 

It didn't matter. Not her clothes, not her hair, not the impression she left on young guards, none of it would matter once she was with Seamus. She could still feel the brush of soft skin against skin as he peeled her bloodied clothing off her at Adamant. His utter rapture at her bruised and scarred and ageing body.

 

It was all bullshit, everything she had let fester over the years. Every thought that she was not pretty like a lady, not well-mannered enough or too intimidating, she had let it convince her that she would forever be viewing the things she desired from the outside. To be a warrior, to serve the chantry, that was what she had allowed herself and no more.

 

The stairs up were dark, her frozen feet clumsy and the hem of her robe trying to trip her, but she held the rail and kept going, fearing if she faltered for even a moment she might lose her nerve. With every step her limbs were heavier, her heartbeat faster, her breathing harder. She had nothing to fear, her head knew it as surely as she knew her own name, but her body wasn't listening. It took all her strength to push his door open.

 

Seamus' surprised gasp reached her. Cassandra startled as the candles around the room flared to life. She sometimes forgot.

 

She climbed the last few stairs, finding him shaking himself awake. He was shirtless, sheets twisted around his waist as he tried to orient himself. He saw her and froze, lips parted. Cassandra was pinned in place by his gaze, his beautiful hair loose over his shoulders, that body that women swooned over all on display for her and Maker, he was divine.

 

Cassandra didn't move, words on the tip of her tongue, hands fisted around the bunch of flowers until her knuckles turned white. She could feel her heartbeat in her clenched hands, her frozen toes, deep in her gut, her blood running hot and cold.

 

“Cassie?” Seamus rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter in bed, still half asleep. “What are you... Did you... bring me flowers?”

 

She smiled watching him paw at his face, still muddled from the haze of sleep. “Yes.”

 

She approached the bed and set the bunch of flowers down on his night stand. He watched her with something like awe, as if he wasn't sure if he was still asleep.

 

With both hands free she untied her robe and dropped it from her shoulders. In only her nightshirt, legs bare and ice cold, she climbed into bed beside him. Seamus welcomed her as he always did, arms wrapping around her and pulling her in close to his side. She shuddered as the warmth seeped into her, feeling returning to her feet.

 

Cassandra melted into his side, for the first time she had a moment to really feel her whole body pressed against his, the warmth, the strength of him. She could see his bare body in the candlelight, not just in rushed glimpses but the gorgeous entirety of him on display for her. Without thinking she trailed her fingertips through the fine hair that trailed down his belly. Seamus sucked in a sharp breath, his hand trembling at her waist.

 

He rested his forehead against her temple and let out a shaky breath. “You're making it very hard to keep my promises.”

 

She ignored him, letting her free hand wander the length of his chest, tracing the muscles, dragging through his hair, experimenting and exploring. She let herself relax, really relax, for the first time in months or years all the tension eased out of her until she was boneless, stroking his chest, the only energy in her a compulsion to keep touching him at any cost.

 

In one smooth move she rolled on top of him, straddling his hips. His hands dropped to her hips, some ancient instinct. She let one of her hands follow her mesmerised gaze, tracing his jawline, the stubble of his cheek, the tendons of his neck. Her thumb trailed over his lips and he took the tip into his mouth, biting gently.

 

She moaned without meaning to. With a sharp breath and a tug of his hands he brought her closer against him, cradled in the crook of his body and flush against his bare chest. His hands touched her through soft cotton, the barrier between them tantalisingly thin.

 

Cassandra closed the last inch, kissing him the way he always kissed her, with abandon and honesty. It was exactly what she had wanted, how she'd imagined it. He moaned, hands clutching tighter, his hips bucking against her. Pure, full-bodied joy which radiated through them both. He tugged her nightshirt up, urging it over her head and she let him. Anything for more contact, more warmth, more of him.

 

They broke as he pulled the shirt over her head, exposing her to his gaze. She braced against his shoulders, refusing to be pulled back in. “I didn't come here for this.”

 

His hazy eyes traced down her body, lingering, distracted. “What did you come here for, Seeker?”

 

She cupped his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her face. His blue eyes were dark, pupils blown, dazed. She leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

 

“I love you,” she whispered. “I've loved you...”

 

When she trailed off he smiled gently. “Since the Winter Palace?”

 

“Since Haven.”

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, smiling, in such joy and relief she thought he might cry. “Since the first time I made you laugh.”

 

Cassandra laughed, a painful, whimpering thing, and leaned in to kiss him again. He wrapped her up tightly, bare skin against bare skin, white linens and candlelight and the smell of Andraste's grace. He rolled her onto her back, snuffed the candles with a gesture, and leaned in to kiss her once more.

 


	45. After - Twenty Three

It was like a dream. Red sunlight through stained glass windows, threats, ultimatums. A voice only partially her own rising in rage and fear. Cold stone at her knees, dragon bone against her neck. Sharp, desperate breaths. Hair spilling around her face. Hands she kept clenched as they threatened to tremble apart.

 

Theodora met eyes with the Seeker, seeing recognition. She wanted to keep her secret, the secret that kept Alistair on his throne, that she had so carefully guarded lest she lose it all. It slipped through her hands like dry sand in the Seeker's piercing eyes.

 

She lost sight of it for a moment, the executioner's sword in the air, red sunlight, so much noise, and then Alistair's arms, his lips against her cheek his shaking, sobbing voice in her ear. She didn't hear the words.

 

Something had happened. Something.

 

She didn't think, didn't know what to think. She leaned into Alistair's arms.

 

“Are you safe?” she asked.

 

“Don't do that again,” he said. “Don't you ever do that to me.”

 

_ Do what? _ she wanted to ask, but the moment had passed. Something had happened. He held her tight against his chest, strong arms like iron around her.

 

“Alistair, don't,” she whispered. The cold air still blew against her neck, the blade waiting to strike. He buried his face in her hair, like they were alone, like the doors had shut, the candles snuffed, like there weren't eyes on them.

 

“I don't care,” he said. “Let them look.”

 

She held, she held, red sunlight, Alistair's arms, dragonbone. Her neck was bare. The Inquisitor had been poisoned. She grasped her lover around the waist.

 

What was the poison? The Inquisitor still breathed. Radiant Seamus Trevelyan, lingering for days. Only a few toxins could do such a thing. On the eve of his wedding, what a monstrosity, what a... She had recognised the Seeker's eyes. Dark, helpless. Desperate. Theodora clung to Alistair, letting him cradle her against him.

 

He had nearly died. The Seeker would have killed him.

 

Cullen, what was the poison?

 

Essence of laurel.

 

“Alistair,” she breathed against him, fingertips digging into the nape of his neck. She kissed his lips, still shaking. “I have to... I...”

 

“Please don't. Just stay a little while.”

 

“Soon,” she promised, not sure when soon would be. “Find your mother. I have to...”

 

She stumbled to her feet, breaking out of his arms. Red sunlight. Cold stone. Essence of laurel. She turned her head. The room was all but empty. No one had noticed them. No one she had noticed noticed them. Dragonbone at her neck. Her feet carried her forward.

 

Essence of laurel. Dull the senses, slow the heartbeat, create the first rift between a mage and the fade around them. Gently, like fingers running under soft clothing. Just a little separation. Like being in the same room as a king and calling him 'Your Majesty' when she wanted to say so much more. A barrier. Invisible and impenetrable.

 

She took the stairs. The boards creaked underfoot. A crowd gathered in silent vigil outside his door. Radiant Seamus Trevelyan. Red hair, red sunlight, Leliana sat outside the door, defeated and grieving. Her hands lay clenched in her lap, big, dark eyes turned to Theodora.

 

“Theodora,” she said, voice hoarse. “I'm sorry. We wouldn't have let her kill you.”

 

Theodora paused. She hadn't thought Leliana would intervene, or anyone really. The world had narrowed to her and the Seeker, to Alistair yelling in the background, to the white sword raised above her neck. She had forgotten she had friends in the room.

 

“I'm here to see the patient,” she said, having nothing else to say.

 

The three of them looked at each other. Weighted, intense stares, between her, themselves, making a decision without speaking words. They could only come to one decision, any other would be madness. And they weren't mad.

 

The room was filled with white sunlight, the smell of dragonbone, the air against her exposed neck, Andraste's grace. A beautiful place to inter their dying Inquisitor. He lay in the bed, shuffled about by nursing staff, posed to look peaceful although he was not. His Seeker looked up at her, dark eyes, rimmed in makeup and suppressed tears and days and days of pain.

 

“You should have said something sooner,” Theodora said, moving to sit beside Trevelyan. He was breathing only in short hiccups, his body straining with the effort of it. Almost time for him now. “I didn't know how bad it was.”

 

“You want to help?” the Seeker asked. Wary, suspicious. Red sunlight, dragonbone, the scent of roses.

 

Theodora pressed a hand against the Inquisitor's chest and reached out, flitting along the veil as it stitched in and out of him. Red hair, white sunlight. His essence lay in dregs in the pits of him, the last pitiful spoonful at the bottom of a bowl. It should have been long gone.

 

“I understand,” Theodora said, aware of the Seeker's eyes on her. “If you'd killed Alistair I would have killed you. Sometimes it drives us... mad. It's natural.”

 

“The others won't see it that way.”

 

“The others don't understand.” Theodora reached further, testing to see if she could encourage his spirit back, even in part. The essence had done something to him. What should have felt elastic and slippery deep inside him instead seemed to shred, fall apart under her magic, refused to move as a single piece. “It was the archdemon.”

 

“What?”

 

Theodora gestured to her head. “I was already in trouble, but I think I would have healed. The archdemon... no one is supposed to survive it. Once Alistair realised I couldn't have been rid of him if I'd wanted to.”

 

She abandoned the spirit. The essence had caused too much damage, trying to keep his spirit from the fade while his dying body kept trying to push it there. Pulled from one end and held in place at the other, like tanning leather or shredding meat. She switched her focus to the body, the heart, the lungs.

 

“Can he hear us?” the Seeker asked, voice hopeful.

 

“No.” She tried to encourage the heart, weaved at the damaged muscles, and it sped up a little. Not enough. Shredded. Body and spirit already reeling from the anchor's magic, the shock of a lost arm, not a chance he could withstand this.

 

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. One more try. She reached for it all at once, maybe one push on everything could make the difference. The smell of Andraste's grace surrounded her. The smell of roses took it over. She pulled, pulled his blood through his heart, his spirit into his body, his diaphragm back into position.

 

The Inquisitor gasped in his sleep, breathing his first proper breath, his lungs filling with air and his heart beating a steady rhythm. Teddy held it. Held it. Muscles strained against a dragon, sword above her head, blood vessels bursting as she tried to keep it from crushing her. Hold. Hold.

 

Cassandra's eyes flew to her, a spark of vain, useless hope in them.

 

Theodora let it drop. It would take hours, days for her magic to take enough stress from his body to let it heal itself again. She couldn't.

 

“What was that?” the Seeker said.

 

“It's not enough. He's gone.”

 

“No, no, he... he  _ breathed _ . You must be able to...” Dark eyes. Red hair, red sunlight, red fire. The smell of roses.

 

“Seeker.” Theodora took her hand off the Inquisitor's chest and clasped her fingers together, leaning in to his lady love. She was stricken, no more lucid in this moment than Theodora had been for thirteen years. “I cannot do this without blood. He's gone.”

 

It settled heavy between them. Cassandra's eyes were huge, pretty and deep and shining with tears. Her breathing came in sharp gasps, her hands and shoulders shook with it. The scent of Andraste's grace filled the air.

 

“How much blood?” she whispered.

 

Theodora knew what answer this poor soul wanted –  _ all of it. _ It was easier for the holy to sacrifice themselves than to live with the sin. To save her lover, to die, to rest in state a bloodied but blessed hero would have been a relief at this point. It would have been beautiful thirteen years ago, a tomb at Weisshaupt carved with her name, her deeds, the adulation of all Thedas.

 

But what Theodora had been denied she had to deny the Seeker.

 

“A lot, but not all.”

 

Red hair, sunlight, fire, blood, roses. This man was going to die here. The Seeker clasped a hand to her mouth and muffled her own wail, tears spilling from her eyes. Her gasping, choking breaths echoed her fiance's. She took the man's giant hand and pressed it against her face, her whole body wracked with half-choked sobs.

 

Theodora met Cullen's eyes where he lurked by the stair. He approached, Leliana and the ambassador creeping through the door behind him as if they could disturb the scene. Cullen looked down at the Inquisitor while the ambassador sunk to her knees beside Cassandra, pulling her into a hug.

 

Theodora rose and stepped away with Leliana.

 

“What's your verdict?” Leliana asked.

 

Theodora shook her head. “Any minute.”

 

“There's nothing you can do?”

 

And would the Divine be more inclined to spill blood to save him? Red hair, red blood, the red rose of Lothering, Leliana had been there the first day she ruptured her veins to take down an ogre. Things were different now. As different as roses and Andraste's grace. “I can give you more time to say goodbye. An hour at most.”

 

Leliana looked at her, to the Inquisitor, to her friends. She paced a step away, two, turned back. A plan forming.

 

“Cullen, you need to get Cassandra's dress,” Leliana said. She stepped forward, making her presence known.

 

He looked up, surprised. “What are you talking about?”

 

“We don't have much time. Get Cassandra's dress. Josie, you'll have to help her. And Teddy,” Leliana turned back to her and grabbed both of her hands, squeezing tightly. “Do whatever you must, but please, keep him alive.”

 


	46. Before - Twenty Three

White sunlight flooded over Cassandra. She draped a hand over her face, blocking it out. The warmth of sleep still lay heavy over her, twisted in soft sheets, sunk into the softest mattress. The world came into focus slowly, the bed smelled of Seamus, a pleasant ache radiated from her belly.

  


Once she had thought that it might be enough to dance with him, to kiss him, to make love with him. What a naïve, hopeless thought that had been. Seamus was teaching her the meaning of _enough_. It involved whole nights in his quarters. Jokes, stories, poetry, candlelight, his hands, his mouth, muffling her cries into the pillows. They would doze lightly, every few hours one or the other reaching out and then coming together again however their sleep-muddled bodies chose. Enough was exhaustion, strained muscles and ruined sheets, doing things beneath his dignity – and hers. Then a week, two weeks in the field and by the time they arrived back at Skyhold she would be vibrating with the need again. Enough was returning to her own quarters before dawn with a sleepy, self-satisfied grin on her face that refused to budge.

  


Cassandra peeked through her fingers and clutched the sheet to her chest, her brain waking up enough to realise something was wrong. The sun was high in the sky.

  


Seamus was up, by his desk, chatting softly with an elven servant as she helped him on with his jacket.

  


“Should I be bringing breakfast for Lady Pentaghast from now on?” the woman murmured.

  


Seamus grinned. “Let's not jinx it.”

  


The woman giggled. “I'll fetch her clothing when I’m done here.”

  


“Thank you, Netty.”

  


He looked so young, so relaxed with his big smile, something in his posture that made him tread lighter. Cassandra sat up, sheet balled in one hand at her chest and watched him as Netty brushed down his coat, smoothing and cleaning it. It was surreal to see his morning routine. It reminded her of home, of Nevarra in her childhood where nothing could be done without a servant's oversight. Of course, her uncle had never talked and joked with his valet.

  


They talked, quietly, laughing, as Netty fixed him up, helping him with hard-to-reach buttons and making sure his hair sat just so. Cassandra knew she was in love, because this should not have been nearly so endearing as it was. She wasn't sure if it was his friendship with his girl or how much work he put into being so absurdly handsome, but she watched from the bed with a soft smile on her face.

  


When Netty let him go he turned and saw his audience. His smile brightened and his eyes softened, mirroring her own helplessly smitten expression.

  


“Morning,” he said.

  


“How did you ever survive a Circle?” Cassandra asked, resting her chin on her hand.

  


“I'm tougher than I look.” Netty made a discreet escape behind him, her arms laden with laundry and dishes. Seamus sat on the bed next to her, the mattress dipping with his weight. “How did you sleep?”

  


“Too well. You should have woken me.” She leaned closer to him, trying to be upset that she was still here, trying to decide if she loved him better when he was freshly groomed and cast in sunlight or dishevelled and lit by candlelight.

  


“I couldn’t,” he murmured, taking one of her hands in his. “You were exhausted.”

  


She squeezed his hand in hers and stole a soft kiss from him, deciding she liked him equally both ways. A magnetism lay between them, every time they were close somehow they ended up with hands in hands or threaded through hair, lips meeting, arms enfolding. Maker, how could she be allowed something like this? It was so fragile, destined to be broken, but in the moment it felt like the pillar that held her world aloft.

  


“We’re at war, it doesn’t become us to flaunt our happiness,” she protested. Even to her own ears it sounded half-hearted. She stole another kiss.

  


Seamus wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her in further. “What if I want to flaunt it?”

  


“You are the Herald of Andraste. I know you will be... temperate.” She pressed her nose against his, dizzy with it all. Her world had narrowed to the soft and the comfortable and the frisson of new love.

  


“Temperate? After last night that’s almost an insult.”

  


“You...”

  


He cut off her poor attempt at an insult with another kiss, smothering the smile that had perched itself on her lips. Perhaps temperate was the wrong word, as he said, when she thought back on his conduct the night before.

  


“I have to leave,” she breathed.

  


“Or,” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, “You stay here forever, I tell everyone you were eaten by a dragon.”

  


One of them was going to have to be the adult and she had the sinking feeling it would have to be her. She laughed against his lips, kissed him again then pulled back. “I have to leave.”

  


“But you'll stay for breakfast.”

  


She smacked his hands where they went to pull her back. “ _No_.”

  


“I’m sure you will,” he insisted. “Because Netty hasn't brought you any clothes yet.”

  


It was an excuse which would keep her in this bed all morning if she let it. But she couldn’t. There had been promises made, to ward against negligence and heartbreak. She pulled away from him and climbed off the bed, taking the sheet with her and wrapping it under her arms. In her makeshift dress she swept across the floor to the little table set with breakfast and took up a seat there in the sunlight.

  


The breeze coming in from the balcony was cool, the sun warm, and Seamus was straightening himself out by the bed. She raised a bite of food to her mouth but paused. The moment settled over her, how right it felt, how happy she was. He'd have her here every morning if she let him. She could wake up to him, eat her breakfast high above the keep, she could be the one straightening his jacket and running her fingers through his hair. She thought she knew what it was like to have all that he could offer, thought her heart was as full as it could be, but he always surprised her with more. That was the danger of him.

  


She caught him staring at her, sitting on the bed, a wistful expression. She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  


“You're so lovely.”

  


The heat rose up her neck and she looked down. Sometimes he was too much. “This won't be a habit.”

  


“I know.” He rose from the bed and approached her, pausing to kiss the crown of her head before taking the seat opposite her.

  


“So you've abandoned your quest to keep me here?”

  


“Never,” he said. “Our last assault on Corypheus will be soon. And if we win...”

  


“When we win,” she corrected.

  


“When we win I hope I've made you so happy you won't make it past those gates.”

  


“I may not be elected Divine.” Cassandra paused, unsure if she should share her private musings with him. She didn't want to give him false hope. But it was nothing he hadn't borne before. “If I rebuild the Seekers it might be possible for me to keep a permanent home. Between my travels.”

  


Seamus sucked in a breath and she looked up to see his face kept carefully neutral. She hadn't raised the prospect of staying before, not to him and hardly to herself. She wasn't sure what it would mean for them. It was commitment. If she was not an agent of the Inquisition but kept Skyhold as her home there would be no doubt about why she kept returning.

  


Seamus reached out and took her hand, gently squeezing her fingers. “You're going to be elected. But if you weren't, I'd like that. Very much.”

  


A smile pulled at her lips and she looked down again. He kept doing this to her, tugging at her heart so fiercely that she worried she really would abandon everything for him. But she had sworn to let herself enjoy this while she could and she would. So she ignored the pain in her chest and leaned back in her chair, memorising every detail of what it felt like to wake up with him in the sunlight.

  
  



	47. After - Twenty Four

Leliana didn't care for marriage-in-lieu. It was usually used for political purposes, to marry off the decrepit or the newborn as a way of making property change hands. But now she found herself rushing to prepare the ceremony, hands full of silk and rosemary while Theodora struggled to keep Seamus alive. Her mind and body worked as two different creatures, one making the preparations and the other reeling with what was about to be done, how soon they would lose their friend.

 

Josephine was making the finishing touches on Cassandra, threading flowers through the hair of the tear-stained bride. Cullen saw to Seamus, trying to make him as presentable as he could, smoothing his hair out of his face and straightening his shirt.

 

Alistair sat behind the giant desk in the room, cradling Theodora in his arms, every so often uncorking another lyrium potion and guiding it to her lips. She was limp, head bowed, white-knuckled hands fisted in Alistair's jacket.

 

“Kneel down, Cassandra,” Leliana said. Josephine helped Cassandra kneel, the poor woman still weeping silently, limbs barely cooperating enough to follow the instruction. Her gold dress pooled around her, making her almost a lady on her wedding day. 

 

Leliana took the sprig of rosemary and made the dousing action although she had no oil to anoint the couple. It would be enough, it had to be. Josie held Cassandra fast around the waist, keeping her in place and upright.

 

“You're going to be Lady Trevelyan,” Josie whispered to her, holding her from behind. “He would want this for you.”

 

Cullen lay her longsword on the bed between the couple. A glint of gold in the hilt reflected the light. Their promise to each other, surely a fitting thing to use as the token for their wedding.

 

Seamus breathed easily, some of the colour returned to his face. They should have called Theodora from the start, Leliana should have trusted her instinct. If they hadn't been so paranoid, or if they hadn't let themselves be ruled by a grief-stricken woman they might have saved him. They might have saved him.

 

“Cullen, kneel with them,” she said. “Say the words for him.”

 

Cullen knelt and looked Seamus over helplessly for a moment. Ideally he would hold one hand and Cassandra the other, but Seamus had only one hand. After a brief hesitation he placed his hand on Seamus' heart.

 

This would be agony for Cassandra but it had to be done. She deserved the chance to mourn him as his widow, to be buried beside him when the time came. She wouldn't be forgotten by history as Ameridan's lover had been. Leliana clung to her numbness, not acknowledging what she wanted to feel, what she would feel in an hour when all of this was over. She needed to be strong for everyone right now.

 

“Take his hand,” she said. Josephine guided Cassandra's trembling hand into Seamus'. She clung to it like a lifeline, breathing in ragged sobs.

 

Leliana took the long strip of blue silk – Seamus' favourite shade which had become Cassandra's favourite – and wrapped it around their joined hands once, twice.

 

The air throbbed with energy, something rippling along the veil, raising the hairs along her arms and at the back of her neck. Leliana glanced at Theodora. Still half-gone in Alistair's arms. He pressed another lyrium potion to her lips, watching her face, his free hand rubbing her shoulder.

 

“In the name of Andraste and the Maker I bless this marriage. May it - ” Leliana stopped herself short.  _ May it be blessed with many children and many happy years _ . She swallowed, her tongue thick and clumsy. Maker, let her find the words. “May it... May it be a joy to you. May the Maker place you among the stars together.”

 

She wanted to kneel with her friends, to wrap her arms around them and be there with them when this was so horrible.

 

Seamus coughed in his sleep, startling a gasp out of Cassandra. Nothing, just the throes of Teddy's magic. She'd said he would improve under the spell, not to let it raise their hopes. The rays of afternoon sun struck his hair and made it glisten in gold and red. He almost looked healthy again.

 

“Repeat after me, Cassandra.” Leliana squeezed her shoulder although she wasn't supposed to. She needed some connection to them. “I swear unto the Maker and Holy Andraste...”

 

Cassandra sniffed, took a deep breath and her voice came out even. “I swear unto the Maker and Holy Andraste...”

 

“...to love this man the rest of my days.”

 

“...to love this man the rest of my days.”

 

“Cullen, say the words for him.”

 

Cullen wrapped his free hand around Cassandra's elbow. All of them, there, clutching at each other, staying upright, keeping going just as Leliana was trying to do. Josephine pressed her face into Cassandra's neck, eyes closed.

 

“I swear unto the Maker and Holy Andraste to –”

 

Seamus coughed again, louder. He gasped in a deep breath. Leliana paused. She looked to Theodora, whose eyes were open, looking at the Inquisitor half curious and half alarmed. Seamus took another deep breath and settled. Cassandra let out a distressed noise, bowing her head.

 

“Again, please,” Leliana said.

 

“I swear –”

 

Seamus groaned and shifted in the bed.

 

“Keep going.” Theodora's voice rang out, strong and urgent. “I can't stop.”

 

“What is happening?” Leliana asked.

 

Theodora rose to her feet, one hand stretched out. “If I stop he'll die, if I keep going...”

 

“What? If you keep going what?”

 

Theodora met her eyes, an hysterical note of panic in her face. Her eyes were blown black, body trembling. “He's going to wake up.”

 

Leliana almost cried out for joy, the noise threatening to erupt from her mouth unbidden. But another half second and she understood what Theodora was saying. He was going to wake up and then they were going to lose him. Cassandra was going to have seconds or minutes of Seamus confused and afraid, maybe in pain, and then he was going to die. That would be their last memory of him, those would be his last moments.

 

“I swear unto the Maker and Holy –” Cullen tried, speeding through the words, but it was too late.

 

Seamus gave a great gasp and opened his eyes.

 

He searched, eyes darting wildly, his body starting to curl in on itself. He coughed again and again, days of repose hindering his breathing. Cassandra cried out, something between a laugh and a sob escaping her, she seized his hand tightly and pulled herself forward.

 

“Seamus? Seamus?”

 

His delirious eyes seemed to focus on her. He stared at her, bewildered and afraid, mouth open. “Cassie..?”

 

“ _ Hurry _ !” Theodora roared. Alistair leapt to her and forced another potion into her mouth. She was fading, her knees buckling.

 

“Seamus, repeat after me.” Leliana leaned down and grabbed his shoulder, digging her fingers into his flesh with all her might, hoping the pain would shock him into the moment. “I swear unto the Maker and Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days.”

 

“I... I swear...” he was slurring his words, his confusion replaced by real fear. “I swear unto the Maker and... and Holy Andraste to love...”

 

“To love this woman the rest of my days,” Leliana prompted.

 

He looked at her, huge blue eyes so frightened, then back to Cassandra. He took a few short breaths, staring at his lady, and seemed to register what was happening, what he was being asked. 

 

He grasped her tightly, his huge hand enveloping hers, and held her eyes. “I swear unto the Maker and Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days.”

 

Cassandra leaned forward, their hands entwined, their friends supporting them, and kissed his lips. As she drew back she squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face. She looked to Theodora. An appeal. A last, desperate appeal as though the mage could save him.

 

Theodora stood, both hands outstretched, black veins raised under her skin, on the point of collapse. She shook her head. “Do it now if you want to keep him. Cut deep. Make it hurt.”

 

Leliana was brought out of the horror of it for just a moment by the confusion. Whatever conversation they were having she didn't understand. Until she did, a sickening heartbeat where she understood completely. But she was too late. Just as the realisation formed Cassandra tossed Josie off her and in one smooth move elbowed Cullen in the throat, sending him sprawling across the floor.

 

The chaos was absolute, Josephine's cry, the crash of Cullen's armour against the stone floor, Seamus' confused voice. In that moment of chaos Cassandra grabbed the sword from between them and slashed it across her forearm. A torrent of her lifeblood spilled down her gold dress, spattered across Seamus, and pooled on the floor around her.

 


	48. Before - Twenty Four

“You should take more furs, the road's going to be cold.” Seamus buckled Cassandra's sword belt into place and she smiled to herself. He helped her with the straps and buckles of her riding clothes although she didn't need the help.

 

“Don't fuss,” she murmured.

 

“I want to fuss.”

 

She tugged her jacket into place over her clothes and turned to him. They couldn't put this off forever by adding successively more clothes to her outfit. The weeks had slipped by, candles burnt to stubs and their time was up. Tonight she would be unable to climb his tower, tomorrow morning he wouldn't be waiting for her in the yard.

 

Cassandra settled  _ Promise _ at her hip and looked up at him. He was smiling gently, one arm behind his back, putting up as good a face for her as he could. She tried her best to mimic his calm. They should have had more time.

 

“Now is not the time to lose our nerve,” she said.

 

Seamus took her face in one hand and she met his eyes. Oh, she would miss that shade of blue. The wrinkle in his forehead, those soft lips, his smile, his frown. Everything.

 

His thumb stroked her cheek. “I've done everything I can. You have the full weight of the Inquisition behind you. Just don't draw your sword on the Grand Clerics and you've got this.”

 

“I promise no such thing.”

 

“You're going to make such a good Divine, Cassandra,” he said, his words hushed. “I'll be proud to have called you mine.”

 

She pulled him in to her, pressed her nose against his and closed her eyes. She wasn't ready. There wasn't enough time to remember the shade of his hair, how many inches he stood taller than her, how tightly his arm could wrap around her waist. “I'm still yours.”

 

“I'm yours,” he whispered against her lips. “Always. I promise.”

 

Was that a comfort or a burden? He meant it, she knew that. He wouldn't move on, wouldn't replace her. If she lived another fifty years and wanted to come back here he would still be waiting. That was alright, she decided, because there would never be a day when she didn't miss him.

 

“I love you,” she whispered before pressing a kiss to his mouth. It wasn't their usual frantic foreplay of kisses, just an anchor, a reminder, a promise.

 

He rested his forehead against hers. “I love you. I'm going to miss you.”

 

Cassandra breathed him in, memorising, trying to get enough of him to see her through that dreadful separation. Enough, she knew, was a myth – a story she kept telling herself. But she held on, trying to stay as long as she could before he pulled away. Her stomach twisted into knots, a pain lodging itself in her chest like a pebble in her shoe.

 

How could such a sacred duty feel so wrong? All her life it had felt right, to find a good path and to follow it unflinching. Sometimes it proved wrong, but she had always held faith that just knowing and trying was better than the alternative. This didn't feel right, didn't feel gilded in her faith, didn't feel just or righteous.

 

Cassandra swallowed her doubts. This had been the danger when she'd accepted Seamus and she had sworn faithfully that it would not change her decision.

 

“We're keeping Leliana waiting,” Seamus said, his arms still fast around her.

 

She nodded and stepped away from him, not meeting his eye. She had to do this. The pain would fade in time.

 

Hand in hand he escorted her down to the gates. It was snowy but there were still workmen in the yards, soldiers at the gates, people running to and fro in work or leisure. More than a few were no doubt trying to get a glimpse of their party as they left, to say they had seen the Divine the day she left for Val Royeaux.

 

Dennet had saddled her horse. Leliana was already mounted and looking over her shoulder, her dark surcoat covered by a thick bear fur to keep out the wind.

 

“Good luck, Leliana,” Seamus greeted as they approached, his hand still squeezing hers. “I'm sure Justinia would be pleased that it came down to you two.”

 

Leliana smiled. “Thank you, Seamus. I'll miss being your spymaster, even if it's only for a few months.”

 

“You'll be sorely missed here. I'll see you soon enough either way.”

 

He patted her horse on the neck and left her with a smile.

 

Cassandra held his hand tightly as they approached her horse. He turned to her, taking both her hands in his own. Usually she would object to such a public display, but not today. Not when it might be their last. She searched desperately for her last words to him, wishing the Maker would imbue her with some poetic spirit.

 

Something had to reassure him that she still loved him, that this felt like a knife wound in her gut. If she lived to be a hundred and was the greatest Divine Thedas had ever known her heart would still be back in his loft, tangled in white sheets and draped across his chest.

 

“I'm going to miss you, Cassie,” he murmured. “I couldn't have asked for a better friend.”

 

“You'll be in my heart, my love.” She kissed him, chastely, one more time before turning and mounting her horse.

 

She settled into place, the beast skittering happily at the weight of a rider. Seamus gave her knee a squeeze and stepped back, allowing them to move off.

 

The few guards and attendants travelling with them mounted up. A guard called out to the battlements for the gates to be opened. The great portcullis creaked to life, raising to give them passage. Cassandra tried to breathe deep, even as the iron bands closed around her ribcage again. The party moved forward around her, so she urged her horse into a walk.

 

As they passed under the gates she turned back to see him watching her, a sad smile on his face. One last look before he was lost to her. Handsome Seamus, the Herald of Andraste. As beautiful as she had ever seen him.

 

She turned her eyes forward, fixing them on the horizon and refusing to look back again.

 

The clopping of the horses' hooves echoed around the mountains about them, not muffled by the snow. She couldn't breathe properly.  _ Promise _ hung heavy at her hip. Andraste had given him to all of them, all the peoples of Thedas. But She had also given him to her. Only to her in a way he was no one else's.

 

“You look as though you're heading to an execution, not a sacred appointment,” Leliana said.

 

“It's hard to leave Skyhold,” Cassandra confessed.

 

“I'm sorry. I truly am. No one should have to choose between duty and love.”

 

Cassandra kept her eyes forward. It would be easier if duty wasn't pulling her from all directions. Duty to the Chantry to seek the Sunburst throne. Duty to the Seekers to rebuild and reinvigorate. Duty to the Inquisition to help shape their future. And duty to him, because wasn't he a duty as well? She had pledged her sword, her heart, her service and then taken them away with her.

 

“Duty must come first,” Cassandra said.

 

“It will be easier once we get to Val Royeaux. Once you have something else to think about.”

 

They trod down the snowy path, beyond the first rise and when she looked back she could only see the parapets of the keep. Leliana talked beside her, aimless chatter to fill the air, wary eyes regarding her. Was her anxiety so transparent? Of course it was.

 

Every step the horse took sent a shock of pain through her, her lungs and throat closing up more with every step away from him. She kept getting further away. Val Royeaux seemed an interminable distance. A vast space between herself and the place she wanted to be. The sun shining on her in the Grand Cathedral and winter snows falling on him in his empty hall. An impossible distance.

 

“I...” Cassandra pulled her horse to a halt. This was wrong. The party halted around her, all eyes on her, waiting to see why she held them. She licked her lips. “I can't go.”

 

“Cassandra...” Leliana tried.

 

“I renounce my candidacy. Tell them for me.”

 

Leliana stared at her for a long moment, mouth agape. She finally nodded. “Go.”

 

Cassandra turned her horse about and kicked it forward, urging it into a gallop. She held fast, body lowered, a shower of snow from her mount's hooves kicked up in her wake. The gates were still open. She wanted this. To be Seamus' right hand, to rebuild the Seekers from his side, to go wherever the Inquisition led. She wanted a home.

 

Her re-entrance garnered a few stares as she pulled her horse up in the yard. She gave the creature a pat on the neck and dismounted, not tying it up. She took the stairs two at a time, the weight of her greatcoat bearing down on her. People were looking, but let them look, she was done hiding, done pretending. She had almost left him for nothing but the weight of her own expectations.

 

Varric stood outside the great hall and when he caught sight of her he gave her a wide, smug grin. She should have smacked the insufferable look off his face, but it was contagious, a smile taking hold of her lips. She was home. He nodded toward the hall.

 

Cassandra burst through the doors, not waiting for the guards to open them. Seamus was on his throne, slumped forward, his head in his hand. She slowed herself down to a brisk walk, the clinks and creaks of her clothing echoing loud in her own ears.

 

When he looked up his eyes widened. He stood, hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he believed his own eyes, then slowly started toward her.

 

“I couldn't,” she said. The only explanation she had to give.

 

Another two, three, four steps and they collided. He grabbed her in both arms and crushed her against his chest, smothering her cry of joy. She leaned against him, grabbed his shirt for balance and closed her eyes, head resting against his heart.

 

Whatever the future held it didn't matter. They would forge their path together.

 


	49. After - Twenty Five

Seamus was floating, warm, wrapped in the deepest sleep of his life. All his limbs were made of lead, his eyes wouldn't open and he didn't care. Somewhere far off he heard voices, felt touches, was faintly aware of the passing of bright sunlight into dim moonlight, but all he could do was drift. He slept for an age, the sloth demon's offer come to life.

 

After days or weeks or months he felt the pull of something deep inside, like a person had their hands in his guts and squeezed. It jolted him, brought him back just enough to make out Cassandra's voice. Her cries. Cassandra was crying. After so long in timeless sleep his brain finally managed a single thought:  _ I have to wake up. _

 

The squeezing kept at him, badgering him, pushing him closer to the surface. He slowly became aware of his body, blinked his eyes, tried to breathe through hard-used lungs, stretched aching fingers. His vision slipped in and out, catching glimpses of white and red and blue. He could smell rosemary. He struggled against it, trying to find the energy to open his eyes.

 

The room was dark when he managed to crack open his eyes, a few candles lit, little bursts of light in the moonless night. He groaned, an ache in his chest registering with his brain. All his limbs were stiff, his lungs filled with cobwebs. It was like the worst hangover he'd ever had.

 

Seamus sat up slowly, trying to work through the sleep that still tried to claim him. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. Josephine was passed out in a chair beside his bed, Cullen on the chaise against the wall, and... and the King of Ferelden in the chair behind his desk. He stared for a moment, trying to come up with some reason why they were all here.

 

He glanced down at the bed and a strangled cry came from his lips. Cassandra lay next to him, as white as the sheets, dressed in her wedding gown and drenched in blood.

 

“Cassie?” He leaned over her, shaking her shoulder. Oh, Maker, what had happened here? His chest burned from his suddenly pounding heart. “Cassie, wake up.”

 

He let out a gasp when her eyes opened, just barely. She smiled and breathed out, “Seamus.”

 

Her eyes fluttered closed and he seized her shoulder, pulling her againt his chest as best he could with trembling muscles and one bad arm.

 

“None of that, please.”

 

Seamus blinked at the voice coming from the darkness. He looked up, still clutching Cassandra against his side, to see Warden Commander Amell stood over a table filled with bottles and bowls, a herbalist's accoutrements. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, her blue surcoat draped over the back of a chair.

 

“Warden Commander?” he asked. His brain tried again at explaining what was happening. She was a healer. He... he thought he remembered that. “What's happened to Cassandra?”

 

The Warden Commander turned to him and cocked her head. She approached and he could see where black veins were raised on her neck. “She's alright. It's blood loss, nothing I can't heal.”

 

“Blood... What happened here?”

 

The barest hint of a smile quirked at her lips. She pointed to Josephine. “Shock.” To Cullen: “Cracked collarbone.” To the king: “Big day.” To Cassandra: “Bad at blood magic.” And finally to him: “Overdose of laurel essence. Leliana is getting a fresh change of clothes, I told her I'd watch you.”

 

“Overdose of... bad at what?” His gummed-up mind wasn't processing things fast enough. He'd overdosed. On that poison that Cassie hated. Oh, what had she done to bring him back? He looked over her, her reddened eyes, the bloodied bandages on her arm, her ruined dress. She hated blood magic as much as anyone he'd ever known. Blood mages killed her only brother.

 

“You were out for five days,” the Warden Commander continued. “You'll be sore. And tired. I'm going to stay on for a few days to keep healing Cassandra's arm. She doesn't do things by half measures.”

 

Seamus chuckled, stroking Cassandra's face. “No, she doesn't.”

 

He should have been angry with her for doing something so dangerous, but he couldn't be. Five days. She must have been scared. It was just like him to try to do something romantic and end up scaring her half to death. He brushed his thumb across her lips and she snuffled in her sleep. Pale and weak, but safe.

 

In the corner the Warden Commander gently roused the king, who wrapped his arms around her waist and made some sound of protest against her belly. Seamus blinked, but decided he'd stop trying to figure out what was going on. Someone would explain it to him eventually.

 

He sunk down in bed, shuffling closer to Cassie, gingerly avoiding her injured arm to nestle her closer against his side. The pounding in his head was fading a little. She was going to need support when she woke up. Not just with the pain, she'd need help to come out of the shock, to cope with the shame. Too rash, too driven, just like always.

 

“Your wife's a menace, Trevelyan.” King Alistair rubbed his eyes and stood, taking the Warden Commander by the arm. “Unfit for society. Which I'm assuming is why you like her.”

 

“My wife?” The last thing he could remember was the welcome feast. Had he forgotten their wedding?

 

“Forgot that part, did you? Don't worry, the rest of us will remember it for a long time.”

 

A flash of something came back to him – Cassandra's bloodshot eyes, a hand clawing into his shoulder, trying to speak some words with a thick tongue. The dress, the blood. It all blurred together in his mind. He was married. They were married.

 

“Congratulations, Inquisitor,” the Warden Commander said. Her face was so emotionless, her stare so blank that he didn't realise she was joking until the king grinned.

 

“Thank you. I get the feeling I have a lot to thank you for.”

 

The Warden Commander gave him a slight bow of the head. “We'll tell Leliana you're awake. Stretch your legs when you feel up to it.”

 

She led the king from the room by the hand, the two of them exchanging affectionate smiles. Seamus stared after them, bewildered. Five days could change a lot of things it seemed.

 

He stretched his good arm, the muscles of his neck and back protesting. With a little difficulty he sat up, arranging the pillows behind him so that he could lean against the headboard, then pulled Cassandra into his lap. She protested in half-asleep groans and grunts but helped him pull her against his chest, falling back to sleep in his arms, the two of them twisted in sheets of bloodstained gold silk.

 

As always she felt small in his arms. Sometimes it was easy to forget that she could break him in two. Or wreak whatever havoc the king was referring to. His Seeker, a ball of powerful muscles and unbreakable faith cuddled into his chest snuffling softly. His wife. Whatever she had done he'd fix it. That was his right as a husband.

 

He pressed kisses into her hair, stroking her back. After four years he'd managed to marry her. He couldn't remember it, but that seemed like splitting hairs. He'd done the impossible. Surviving an overdose of the essence, holding the Inquisition together, defeating a demigod were all much, much easier than courting Cassandra. It had been a careful dance of one step forward two steps back, reassuring her, taking her hits as they came, not getting too addicted to soaking in her presence when she allowed it.

 

She stretched in his arms and gave a little sniffle of wakefulness. He kept rubbing her back, letting her come to herself in her own time. After a little jostling and a few adorable noises she looked up at him. Maker, she'd had a hard few days.

 

“Hey, you,” Seamus murmured.

 

“I'm not sorry,” she said before relaxing back into him.

 

“For the... uh... the blood? Or..?”

 

“I'm not sorry for any of it.”

 

He chuckled. “The King of Ferelden says you're a menace. He thinks that's why I like you.”

 

“Is he right?”

 

“Oh, Maker, yes.”

 

She laughed into his chest, shoulders slumped. Long, deliberate breaths bloomed across his chest, he wasn't sure if it was from the pain or just trying to stay calm. But she was exhausted. She groggily raised her head to look at him. “You were dead. You were truly dead this time.”

 

“You don't have to explain.” He cupped her face with his one good hand. “I'm so sorry I scared you like that. I love you.”

 

“I love you.” She closed her eyes. “You won't be pleased when you find out what I've done.”

 

“I don't care. Just get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. I promise.”

 

She buried her face in his neck and sighed. “You can't promise such a thing.”

 

Seamus closed his eyes and lay back, letting himself sink into downy pillows and silk and cotton, the only sound the light breeze rushing past the windows. He dropped a last kiss into his wife's hair before letting her sleep.

 

“I just did.”

 


End file.
